Armoured Prayer
by HyperSoft
Summary: The human race is on the brink of extinction, but Lieutenent Stroud has more pressing matters. She has a personal mission to carry out; an unexpected life to save. But she can't do it on her own. *GoW2/AF spoilers / Minor edits for quality*
1. Prologue

**. A R M O U R E D . P R A Y E R .**

**Rating: M  
Last Edit: Chapter Six _[Minor]_**

**_—_**

**Update (05.05.2011):**

I just realized. I've never taken the time to individually thank everyone who faved or reviewed. And that makes me a terrible person. So.  
**THANK YOU.  
**To everyone who has taken the time to read, fave, or review Armoured Prayer. You're all fantastic, and my love for you is severe.  
**  
Another Update (06.09.11):**  
Okay, I know this is old, but I hate it. _Hate_. I'm in the process of minor re-editing (nothing can save this crap, but at least it can be grammatically correct crap) but please, I implore you: go read one of my other, better fics. Because this is cringe-worthy.

Also, seeing as I'm re-editing sloooooowly, there will be some inevitable discrepencies as I steamroll through the chapters. If something's not matching up, forgive me. The worst ones are going to be Anya's eye colour randomly changing between blue and green, and Fellings Station sometimes getting called Wolfe. Thanks for understanding; this will all be over in a few weeks.

**Author's Note**

1. AP takes place immediately after the end of Gears of War 2 (but has since been Jossed by one _Jacinto's Remnant_). As such, it contains **major spoilers** for GoW2 and _Aspho Fields_.

2. The ultimate goal of my submitting AP is to get as much criticism as possible. I am trying to improve my writing, so please, any concrit (no matter how harsh) is _much_ appreciated.

_Hmm? What's that? Ah yes, obligatory disclaimer. -ahem-_

I own nothing but the OCs and the plot; all else belongs solely to Epic Games. But even then, I'm not overly protective of said OCs or plot. This was just practice.

So, without further ado: _Enjoy. _(...I hope)

* * *

**Prologue**

"Ten-_SHUN_!"

With a synchronous clamour that resounded in the quiet street, sixty-three recruits snapped to rigid attention as commanded. A single pair of massive metal boots kicked up plumes of dust as the sergeant paced before them. The men and women practically squirmed out of their fatigues when he looked at each one; his acid blue eyes seemed to unnerve them.

They were young, he realized. Not the usual, kiss-the-high-school-sweetheart-goodbye, write-a-letter-to-mom-every-Sunday kind of young. No, he expected that. These kids were worse; too many of them were actual _kids_. One gangly, pimply boy, a good foot shorter than the rest, couldn't have been older than sixteen.

_It's the end of the world; what did you expect?_

The sergeant finished his first go-round of scrutiny, turned, and paced back up the line. God, he hated this.

"My name," he growled, staring each rook in the eyes as he went. "Is Sergeant Fenix, and I'm here is to turn you into bullet-cranking death machines."

Marcus had drilled greenhorns before, and he used the same introduction nearly every time. But never, in all his years of fighting, had he ever seen recruits flinch so violently at a drill sergeant's voice. He could have bludgeoned one of them with his Lancer, and they probably would have kept more of their nerve.

He tried again. "Some of you are conscripts, some of you are volunteers, but sooner or later, all of you will be soldiers."

This time, his bellow was not met by a ripple of jerking unease, but something far worse: complete and utter despondence. After the initial fearful jump, the throng of new recruits only stared at the ground with half-lidded eyes, their hands hanging limply at their sides. Marcus could see it now; this motley collection of civilians was down and out, rubbed raw by the rapid succession of tragedy they'd been forced to endure. The sergeant looked into their faces, and he saw the face of humanity.

This was _not_ a good turnout.


	2. Headstrong

**Chapter One: Headstrong **

"As I'm sure you've heard, they call it Belphe."

Baird snapped his head up and crinkled his brow.

"That's a stupid name for a shitty-ass shanty town."

Colonel Hoffman glared bullets at the soldier. His short fuse had lost a few inches in the chaos of the past few days. "That 'shanty town' just happens to be humanity's last chance at survival. It's the Stranded's city, and they call it what they want. If you got a problem with the name, you can march right out there and bitch at them yourself."

Grumbling incoherently, Baird turned away, and the stuffy debriefing tent fell into stiff silence. The other men in the tent—the entirety of Delta squad—did their best to conceal their displeasure at being dragged into an impromptu meeting with Hoffman, especially Dominic. All the colonel was going on about was the importance of their new "home", the Stranded city of Belphe.

Dom turned towards the quiet, complaint-free corner of the tent. There, Marcus stood with arms crossed and shoulders relaxed; his calm posture was a stark contrast to the agitated stances of his fellow Gears. Dom knew he was just as anxious to get back into the battlefield as the rest of his squad, but the sergeant probably knew better than to hope for a mission, especially after the events of the past week. Dom turned to stare absent-mindedly at the flag hanging behind Hoffman's head—the golden COG symbol of a gear, crowned with four stars, on a backdrop of velvety black.

"Alright. So...we lost Jacinto, and that means we can say goodbye to security and refuge."

Dom suppressed a snort. No shit, they knew Jacinto was gone. They were flying over it while it burned.

"Without Jacinto, we're just a bunch of lost kids with guns."

"Not to mention the civilians," Dom chimed in. Since the fall of Jacinto, Dom had kept busy by throwing himself into rescue work, labouring tirelessly to help the thousands of men, women and children who were being evacuated from Jacinto. To many, it looked heroic, but the broken man was simply numbing himself with the hard labour and lack of sleep.

"That's right, Santiago. The civilians are the future of our species, and winter's just around the corner. That's why we need to get them a city to live in."

Dom sensed a trademark Hoffman rant, and instinctively tuned out. His attention turned back to the COG flag, hanging somberly on its crooked pole; Hoffman's thick accent became hazy and faraway.

_ "_After Jacinto sank, we knew that Belphe was our last chance. It's the biggest Stranded outpost for miles, and we've been able to negotiate a hospitality agreement with them. All's left to do is set up a stable perimeter."

The flag hadn't always looked like that. The original flag was simpler, featuring only a single winged gear on a black background. But in the last few days, the COG had seen fit to redesign the motif in order to better represent the new face of the down-but-not-out state of humanity.

"Ah, quit lookin' at me like that, Private. We can't send out troops on missions until our people are safely settled in the city. We can't be riskin' what few men we have left by poor planning."

The changes made to the design were small, and a handful of newly stitched flags were distributed within hours. Above the gear's unfurled wings, there were now four golden stars that shone on the black like real stars in the night. They commemorated Ilima, Tollen, Montevado, and Jacinto: the great fallen cities of Sera.

"...So you boys are ordered to sit tight and attend to your civilian guard duties until we figure Belphe out. You all know what civvies are like; could be weeks until everyone's even close to being settled."

Delta's unified groan of exasperation brought Dom back from his thoughts. He watched as Marcus uncrossed his arms and stretched.

"Is that all, sir?" he asked flatly.

Hoffman locked a scowl on the sergeant. "Not so fast, Fenix. I've got some side-work for one of your boys."

At this, the colonel eyed Dom. This did not bode well.

"You're outta soldierin' work, Santiago, but everyone's still got non-combat duties."

"Such as?" Dom sighed. The man knew where this was going, and he was already feeling a bit sorry for himself.

"Oh, patrol, drillin' greenhorns, guard duty." A smirk cracked the thin line of Hoffman's lips. "You, son, are gonna be monitorin' the city's secondary ration supply station."

Baird snorted, and Cole shook his head sympathetically. Supervision duty was bad enough, but monitoring a _secondary _rations station? The primary station would at least see plenty of daily activity; the most excitement Dom would get from secondary duty would be the odd ration-stealing rat.

"Ehm, sir?" The Gear respected Hoffman, so was doing his best to keep his more vulgar opinions on his new mission to himself. "I'm already working with the rescue missions."

Hoffman let Dom's curt tone slide, which led Dom to believe that the Colonel, to some extent, agreed.

"And I'm not a delivery man, Santiago, but how do you think all these new flags got to the military tents? We need a monitor, and you fit the prerequisites."

Dom furrowed his brow. _Prerequisites? Like what? The ability to count potatoes?_

Hoffman gave a nod of finality. "Alright, boys, you've got your orders. You're dismissed."

Not needing to be asked twice, Delta filed out, eager to escape the stifling air of Hoffman's tent.

"Santiago?"

Dom glanced over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Try to think of it as peacetime protocol."

"Right." Dom drew open the thick canvas flap. Peacetime. They had all the boring of peacetime; none of the peace. Sighing, the Gear walked out into the writhing masses of people and buildings that made Belphe.

There were exactly 391 107 men, women and children—including the baby girl that had been born yesterday—currently living in Belphe, and during high-traffic hours like now, Dom was sure that at least half of them were simultaneously pushing their way through the streets of the shambled city. Rag-tag men selling scraps, wailing women carrying wailing babies, dirt-faced children, blood-covered medics and gun-toting Gears—all of these and more were rushing, marching, and milling between scrapped-together buildings and tents like frantic dust particles in the sun. The COG, hand in hand with the loose Stranded government, was keeping order, but only just. It was only by forcing Gears to attend to the low-level civil duties that Belphe had been able to sustain the desperate refugees for the three days since Jacinto.

That was the strange thing: Jacinto had become an event, not a place.

Parting with a word and a wave, Cole and Baird rushed off to return to their duties, and Marcus and Dom began to carve a path through the hectic crowd. The hodge-podge mixture of Stranded and civilians would see the guns mounted on the men's backs, and immediately hurry to clear a path for them. Whether they moved out of respect or fear, it was hard to say.

Marcus opened his mouth, as if to express the obligatory sympathy for Dom's reassignment, but he couldn't seem to find anything important enough to say, so he just shut his mouth and kept walking.

Dom figured he'd make it easy for him. "You know, it's not that bad..."

Marcus sighed. "Yeah, besides..." There he was, searching for words again. "...Jacinto's gone, everything's different now. We have no idea if the Locust are dead for good, so the COG's goin' into full survival mode."

Dom was amazed; that was the most he had heard his friend say since the fall of Jacinto. He knew Marcus was just trying to make him feel better, but he was really doing his best to make the grass look a little greener...

And then it hit him. Of course; Marcus was trying to make kitchen duty look better, because he probably believed it _was_ better for Dom. He could see it now: _Give that poor Santiago boy monitor duty, he can't handle the field right now. Not after what he went through._

Marcus—intuitive, shifting-emotion-sensitive Marcus—seemed to have picked up Dom's discomfort, because he slowed up and jerked his head towards the impromptu barracks—which had been temporarily relocated to a chain of shaky-looking motels. "Look, I've got recruits I gotta beat."

Dom nodded, grateful for the break in conversation. "Yeah, I'd better go see what the hell is up with the rations station."

Marcus looked hard at his friend for only a moment, then clapped him on the shoulder and disappeared into the crowd.

* * *

_Grain, 19 053 sacks of_

_Salted pork, 4 322 lbs. of_

_Hardtack, 2 091 crates of_

Dom yawned. Somewhere outside the wooden walls of the station—which he'd discovered to be an enormous warehouse—he could hear two men laughing as they tromped by.

_Sugar, 5 702 bags of_

_Beans, 41 618 cans of_

_Powdered milk, 1 842 bags of_

A sigh escaped the soldier's lips as he quickly scanned the rest of the daily stock report on the splintered clipboard. This was his job now; looking over page after page of food inventory, checking and double-checking the numbers to ensure that every grain of rice was accounted for. For the last two days, he had been trapped in the enormous rations station, drowning in the musty smells of countless food products.

Dom stifled another yawn and leaned back against a massive crate labelled _ASSORTED TRAIL RATIONS._ Being out on the battlefield and risking life and limb was bad, but this pointless monitor work was insufferable. He was a Gear; he just wanted to help people. Now, the corporal was sure that reading off endless food stocks would have ill effects on his fighter's brain. He wouldn't be surprised if he asked for "whiskey, one glass of" when he went to the Stranded's bar after his shift tonight.

_Dried Fruit, 55 103 lbs. of_

_Oatmeal, 12 909 crates of_

The man huffed. If it was up to him, these people would learn to live on three square meals of water, gruel, and vitamins a day; meet their required calorie intake, and that was it. None of this "variety of choice" crap.

_Beef jerky, 8 730 lbs. of_

_Myco, 3 991 crates of_

_Potatoes, 6 876 bags of_

_Xanthine tablets, 999 cases of_

Something tugged Dom out of his stock-reading reverie. There was something strange about that Xanthine count, he was sure. He thought he remembered a count of an even one thousand cases; was one missing? Flipping back a few pages, he found the previous day's inventory report and searched the tiny print for the Xanthine stock.

_Xanthine tablets, 1 000 cases of_

So his hunch had been correct; one case of Xanthine tablets was unaccounted for. He wasn't surprised that he'd caught that; Xanthine was one of the more obtuse items in his inventory, because while it was technically a medical product, the stockers had chosen to group it with the food for its usefulness. Each small, compact case held thirty Xanthine tablets, and now one of them was missing.

Dom sat back and wondered about the inexplicable disappearance of the tablets. This was not some desperate vagabond making off with an armful of cabbages; this was the purposeful theft of a potent drug. Xanthine was both a pain reliever and a powerful adrenal stimulant, with consumers being able to stay awake for more than thirty hours with very little fatigue. That meant someone—probably no more than a couple of people—was planning on needing to stay awake for a long time. For what reasons, Dom didn't know.

He looked at the digital clock hanging on the wall of the warehouse. Twenty-two hundred hours on the dot: the shift from hell was over. Dom glanced down at the clipboard in his hands. Did he really care about one missing case of Xanthine? The short answer was "no". The long answer was "like hell he did". He was sure a full-blown investigation would begin tomorrow, so he dropped the clipboard by the clock and left the silent rations station.

Belphe was quieter at night, but not a lot quieter. Save a few drunken civilians, the majority of the common folk had hidden themselves away in the over-crowded civilian housing, and nearly all the regular workers had passed out in their cots before sunset. As per usual in military encampments, the soldiers came out at night, emerging from their stuffy civilian duties to let loose and drink the night away. Of course, most men drank, but only a few rooks ever got drunk. As he set a course for the bar, Dom reminded himself firmly that he was a member of the former group.

While he meandered through the sparse crowds of the torch-lit city, the corporal wondered distantly if any of Delta squad's men would be at the bar tonight. Baird would more than likely be there, and Cole might join him simply for lack of anything else to do. Maybe even Marcus would be there.

But the question was, how surprised would they be to see his _own_ face there?

The old Dom would have met his Delta buddies at the bar in a heartbeat. But the new Dom—broken, widower Dom—might choose an early night instead of a drink with fellow Gears.

_Just like you have every night since you lost her, Dom._

The fragile melody of tinny music trickled through the night air, and the soldier knew he was getting close. He rounded one last corner, and found himself staring down the street at an immensely crowded bar, where the cacophony of cheers and conversation drowned out the weak music. The bar was an old establishment run by the Stranded; inside the large, dimly lit space was an obstacle course of tables, chairs, barmaids, and patrons. All this activity gravitated around the central bar; it's circular counter was packed with thirsty soldiers and rowdy civvies. Dom walked down the street and towards the bouncers lingering just outside of the establishment. Brawling and general misconduct in the bar was strictly forbidden by the Stranded, so all soldiers were required to come in plainclothes and leave their weapons at the door. Dom had had to wear his fatigues for the rations monitoring, but he still needed to drop off his weapons, as much as he hated it.

"'Evening, Corporal," greeted one of the thick-necked guards. "We ask that you remove—"

"Yeah, yeah, give me a sec." Cracking his knuckles, the Gear began to disarm himself. The bouncers watched as their already gun-laden table piled up with a Snub pistol, a frag, two combat knives, and several cases of clips. The guards looked at each other.

"...Is that all, sir?"

Dom glanced over the assorted weaponry. "Yeah."

"Hey, Dom! What're ya doing with all those bullets? I thought you were on kitchen duty!"

Dom instantly recognized the voice and turned. Cole was waving from a table by the bar; he was laughing. Dom raised a hand in greeting and strode towards where Cole sat. To Dom's mild surprise, Marcus was with him, leaning back in his rickety chair with one boot up on the metal table. Dom gave Cole the obligatory shoulder punch, then spun an empty chair around and straddled it.

"Good to see ya out, Dom," Marcus said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Good to be out." The Latino soldier smiled.

Marcus nodded towards the bouncers' weapon table. "What's with all the heat?"

"Aw, he's just prepared!" Cole chimed in. "Nothing wrong with bein' ready when shit goes down."

Dom sighed and decided to roll with the joke. "Oh yeah, gotta be ready for those deadly mold attacks."

Cole burst out in guffaws, and Dom wondered at himself. He made a joke; he had a sense of humour again. This had to be a good sign.

"So, what've we got for alcohol?"

"We sent Baird for drinks, but he's been MIA." Cole said.

"Slacker's probably been eyeballing the barmaids the entire time. Which reminds me..." Marcus leaned even further back in his chair and twisted towards the busy counter. "Baird!...BAIRD!"

A scruffy blonde head crowned with blue goggles popped up from amidst the crowd at the counter.

"What?"

"Dom is here!" Marcus shouted over a sudden roar of laughter from the adjacent table. "Get him a drink, will you?"

"Something hard," Dom called out. Baird gave a dramatic sigh and dove back into the throng of patrons.

Cole leaned back in, shaking his head with amazement.

"We'll never get those drinks. Never." he chuckled, and Dom looked to Marcus. After decades of navigating the uncharted waters of the sergeant's mind, Dom liked to believe that he knew the difference between Marcus's default blank stare, and his legitimately perturbed blank stare. Right then, Marcus definitely looked the latter as he surveyed the bar.

"Hey, Dom." Marcus said, his icy blue eyes still raking the surrounding crowd.

"Yeah?"

"Have you seen Anya around?"

"Uh, no." Dom frowned. "Last time I did, she was in Hoffman's office talking about—"

"Alright, kids, here's your precious booze."

A platter of wildly assorted drinks clanged loudly on the table before Dom, immediately commanding everyone's attention. Baird pulled up a chair and selected a questionably murky red drink from the platter. "Tips in the jar, bitches."

Cole's face broke into a cheek-splitting grin as he snatched up a beer, tore off the bottle cap with his teeth and chugged nearly half the drink. Marcus poured two shots of vodka from a chipped bottle and turned to Dom.

"Cheers."

Dom couldn't help but grin as his friend slammed his shot back. The sergeant's permanent glare seemed a little less severe after that shot, and Dom went to drink his own.

"So, Cap'n Crunch, how're things down at the rations station?" Baird asked, propping his feet on the table with a heavy clunk.

"Peachy," Dom sighed. "Second day on the job, and shit's already getting stolen."

"What got jacked?" Cole asked, looking up from his beer.

"Ah, just a case of drugs. Xanthine or some shit."

"Xanthine?" Cole took a gulp of alcohol. "Ain't that the stim they give us out on the field?"

"It's also a wicked pain killer," Baird chimed in.

Dom nodded, glaring at his shot glass as he filled it again. "Looks like someone's planning on a late night."

"A painful late night," Cole added. "Well, whatchya gonna do about it? Hoffman'll string you up four different ways if he hears."

Dom didn't need anyone to tell him that. He knew he was in deep shit if this didn't get solved soon. Just because humanity faced extinction, didn't mean Hoffman was going to let the little things slide.

Marcus, who had been characteristically silent, leaned forward in his chair and refilled his shot glass. "The case was stolen sometime last night?" he asked.

Dom cast him a sideways glance. "I guess. Why?"

Marcus's broad shoulders gave a shrug-like twitch. "They might be back tonight."

The air between the men gave way to the din of the bar as they digested what Marcus had ever-so-subtly proposed.

"Marcus, man." Cole frowned. "You're not gonna pull some crazy-ass good-cop stunt, are ya?"

The sergeant inhaled his second shot and didn't utter another word; everyone knew the answer to Cole's question. Interestingly enough, Dom was imagining the plan Marcus was making, and was realizing it could actually work: just wait for the thief, catch them red-handed, and then drag their ass to the stockade.

Baird looked highly irritated. "Don't be stupid, Marcus. Self-directed missions have a tendency to get messy."

Dom shook his head in disbelief. Was he actually going to let Marcus try to catch this thief himself? Sure, it would be nice to get the Xanthine back without filling out all the necessary papers, but this was a little extreme. Besides, who was to say that the thief would even make an appearance tonight...

"I'm coming with you," Dom said at last. But the sergeant only shook his head.

"Get some sleep. I need to vent after dealing with those rooks."

Dom sighed, but decided to give in to his stubborn comrade.

"Well, you'd better sober up if you're going to be doing any criminal-apprehending tonight." Dom deftly plucked the shot glass from Marcus's fist. The sergeant aimed one last wistful glance at the vodka bottle, then rose heavily to his feet. He nodded in farewell and melted into the sea of patrons.

Dom watched his bullish friend leave, then turned his attention to the last of the vodka.

Part of him couldn't help but feel sorry for the poor idiot who stole that fateful case of painkillers.

* * *

It was pitch black inside the rations warehouse. The distant sounds of the bar wafted faintly in through the thin walls, but most of the bar's raucous partying had died down. Belphe was nearly all asleep; only the most restless Stranded were stumbling around now.

Marcus glanced at the weak red glow of the digital clock: it was just past oh-one-hundred hours. He put his powered-out flashlight down beside him and stretched his numb limbs; his veins prickled as blood flowed freely through them once again. He had been sitting on a crate for nearly two hours, and he was getting impatient. How much longer until his thief showed up? The musty smell of packaged food was becoming unbearable, and the sergeant was eager to jump some unsuspecting drug thieves.

Something outside the station moved.

Marcus's head snapped up and his muscles tensed. The shadow of a single figure—human, thankfully—fell silently across the station's dirty windows. It stopped for a moment, as if listening, then slinked alongside the building's front. Marcus watched as the person crept fluidly towards the unlocked door; he guessed by the thin build of the figure that he was dealing with one of the emaciated Stranded. Likely some haggard man with an addiction to pain killers. Then again, it could just be some drunken rook, trying to find his way back to the barracks.

Somehow, Marcus seriously doubted it.

The figure was at the entrance now; the wooden door was slowly opening. Marcus picked up the flashlight and shifted his weight carefully over the crate. He had strategically positioned himself on the crate full of Xanthine cases; the thief had likely stolen only one case as a test, to see if the drugs' absence would be noticed. There hadn't been an alarm raised about rampant drug thefts in the city yet, so the perpetrator was probably back to steal the rest of the Xanthine they needed. If all went as planned, the thief would walk smack into Marcus.

There was a creak, and they were inside the warehouse; Marcus's steely eyes narrowed, focusing on the thief as they sneaked warily into the darkness. The sergeant could sense their trepidation; their movements were jerky, and there was a fearful edge to their quickened breathing. The figure, its silhouette barely visible in the shadows, unwittingly approached Marcus. The Gear became instinctively aware of the weight of the revolver on his belt.

The intruder was close now. Marcus resisted the urge to jump prematurely on them; if he broke cover too soon, then they might be able to get away before he was able to apprehend them. Just a little further into the trap, and this fly wouldn't have a chance in hell of escaping...

But then the figure moved away. In that instant, it dawned on the sergeant that the thief wasn't going for the Xanthine. No, they were definitely going for the crate across from Marcus: the one labelled _ASSORTED TRAIL RATIONS_.

Marcus held his breath as the perpetrator stopped in front of the crate. There was a drawn-out moment of silence, and then the click of a flashlight. Not Marcus's, but the thief's. The beam fell upon the crate's side, illuminating both the spray-painted text, and the thief's face. Marcus's eyes widened.

"Anya?"

There was a terrified yelp, and the intruder scrambled backwards.

"Fuck!"

Marcus was speechless. He stepped into the light of the fallen flashlight in a vain attempt at calming the lieutenant down, but he was met abruptly with the barrel of a Snub pistol.

"Anya, calm down." Marcus put his palms up harmlessly. "It's me."

The shaking gun lowered, and Marcus found himself looking into the wide green eyes of Anya Stroud. Her angular face was bloodless, and her dishevelled blonde locks framed her terrified expression. Anya had always been a pale scrap of a woman, but here, quivering in the colourless rays of her dropped flashlight, Marcus thought she looked absolutely ghostlike. She stared up at Marcus, her mouth frozen into a shocked O.

"M...Marcus. What the hell are you doing here?"

It then occurred to the sergeant that the woman had no idea that Dom was in charge of the rations station now, and that Marcus was the step-in bodyguard for the night. For all she knew, he was stealing the same stuff she was after.

"Dom was assigned rations monitor duty." Marcus said in a low voice, ignoring the woman's shocked expression. He clicked on his own flashlight and trained it on her. "Question is: what the hell are _you _doing here?"

Anya bit her lip. Marcus still couldn't believe that after all the drug-grubbing vagabonds in Belphe, _this_ was his thief. While she hesitated to answer the all-important question, Marcus's mind raced to find the answer first. It didn't add up; first, Anya's absence, then the Xanthine, and now the trail rations? The sergeant could come up with only one plausible solution, and even that didn't make any sense.

"Well?" Marcus glared at her through the flashlight beam, but she offered no reply. The man stood back and studied the woman's face. He decided to test his theory.

"Where are you going?"

Anya avoided his eyes. "It's...a mission...that Hoffman sent me—"

"Bullshit."

The lieutenant jerked her head up, startled by Marcus's harshness.

But the sergeant wouldn't let up. "Where's the Xanthine?"

"I don't know what you're—"

"You can't lie for shit, Anya. Now tell me where you're going."

Anya's only reply was a morose shake of her head. Marcus dropped his shoulders. What the hell was this? Anya was a smart girl, but she wasn't making any sense. Her reasoning was shaky and transparent; her arguments easy to defeat. Marcus could see that she wasn't thinking clearly.

The lieutenant closed her eyes and holstered her pistol. "I'm sorry, Marcus. I didn't mean to drag you into this, but I need you to let me go."

Marcus's stoic face didn't betray his surprise. He had been shocked to find Anya here, but some part of his racing mind refused to believe that she would have stolen the Xanthine. Now, not only had she admitted to stealing the drugs _and _leaving on some secret adventure by herself, but she was asking him to just turn the other cheek.

For the first time in a while, the sergeant was torn. Sure, he and the lieutenant were close—they had been for years—but she was standing on a very dangerous edge. This was not like her: she had always been Hoffman's obedient underling, and now she was risking everything, including both of their jobs, and likely all in direct defiance of her orders. Marcus looked into Anya's eyes: their green depths were desperate, pleading with him.

"Anya..." the man sighed. "Look...you and I both know I can't do that."

Marcus felt a pang of guilt as Anya's beautiful face fell. She turned away, burying her head in her hands and exhaling sharply.

"No," she said firmly and whirled around.

Marcus raised an eyebrow. "'No'?"

"You don't understand, Marcus. I _need _to do this." There was the faint edge of anger in her quiet voice.

Marcus refused to back down. "Sorry, Anya, but I can't just let you—"

"Why not?" Anya hissed.

"Because..." Marcus growled back, taking an intimidating step forward. "Whether we like it or not, we all have duties, and you can't just take off anytime you feel like it."

Anya's eyes blazed like green infernos. They glared at each other for a long time; the only sound in the huge station was their ragged breathing. At last, the sergeant stood back, his face of calm never breaking.

"I need the stims back, Anya. You know I do."

The man then pushed past Anya, flicking off his flashlight and leaving the lieutenant alone in the dark warehouse.

Marcus trudged back through the winding dirt paths of the Stranded city. His flashlight was off; the only illumination came from the odd lantern hung outside the motley buildings. The residual glow of his ire was gone now, and the world around him was stark and cold.

Anya had stolen the Xanthine, and came back for the trail rations. She had been smart, stealing from the secondary rations station, which had no guards and only a single monitor. If Marcus hadn't been so stir-crazy from the lack of action, she would have gotten away with it.

That brought up another question: an ugly one that Marcus didn't want to answer. Why _had _he been so adamant about the return of the Xanthine? He didn't give a rat's ass about a box of painkillers, and Anya was one of his closest friends. It just wasn't his business.

So why had he been so determined to get the drugs back and prevent Anya from leaving on her own little adventure?

He didn't know. He _hated_ that. He was making decisions that affected people, and he couldn't give an answer as to _why_. Sure, he could say he was adhering to protocol and upholding civil law, but those didn't count. They were bullshit answers, and he knew it.

He turned a corner, and the motel-turned-barracks loomed darkly ahead. He needed to think about this shit. He needed _sleep_; God knew he didn't get enough.


	3. Subtle Shifts

**Chapter Two: Subtle Shifts**

Cold, dust-laden light fell on the soldier's face, prying apart his deep brown eyes and pulling him from his slumber. He ran his hand through his cropped black hair and stared around at the scant interior of the motel room: the strips of pale green wallpaper peeling down to reveal barren wooden walls; the grungy panes of the single window in the corner; the glass-sconce lamp that flickered violently every once in a while. He lay there for a moment, blinking and listening to the mattress as it creaked beneath his weight. It was a while before it actually registered in his brain that the sun had already risen and the other mattress in the cloistered room was empty; he had slept in.

"Dom, it's late. Get up."

Dom struggled out of bed when he heard the familiar voice. Marcus was hovering by the door, seeming rather unamused as he watched his friend attempt to pull on his fatigues.

"When did you get to bed?"

"Late," Dom huffed as he belted up his cargos. "Not as late as you, I'm sure."

Marcus was silent, but Dom wasn't going to let him off that easy.

"How'd your little stand-off go?"

For a moment, Dom didn't think the sergeant would tell him, but finally he relented.

"Caught 'em."

"Actually? Huh, I didn't think that would've worked. Who was it?" Dom rummaged through his over-stuffed duffle bag, trying to conceal his surprise at Marcus' reported success.

Once again, Dom was met with the ever-mysterious Marcus-silence, but there was something different about this one. The man's quietness was almost..._guilty?_

"It was just some junkie," the sergeant said at length. "I jumped him and took him to the stockade."

The corporal knew from his friend's tone of finality that he would have to be satisfied with that. He selected a standard issue camo shirt from his duffle bag, pulling it over his head. "Don't suppose you got the Xanthine back?"

Marcus inhaled slowly. "No. They didn't have it with them...You ready to go yet?"

Dom opened the door. "Yeah. Let's go."

The hallway was plastered in the same puke-coloured paper as the rooms, and the brown patterned carpet below their heavy boots was worn to threads. Closing the door behind them, they tromped down the narrow corridor, getting passed by other Gears who were either coming in from graveyard shifts, or hurrying about in the same late-morning rush Dom had recovered from.

"It's so weird to be in these motels," Dom commented, his gaze darting about the various numbered doors they passed.

"It's four walls and a roof with a bed," Marcus stated plainly, as if Dom was insane for even questioning their good fortune.

"Yeah, but doesn't it at least feel _kinda_ weird to you? I mean, every one of us, all cooped up in the same building. It's like some kind of fucked up vacation."

The sergeant glanced sidelong at Dom. "Any time I'm sleeping on the same floor as Hoffman does not chalk up as a 'vacation' in my books."

Dom rolled his eyes. They strode past the rusted old elevator doors—sadly, out of commission—and into the claustrophobic stairwell.

"I guess we oughta be grateful," Dom mused aloud, his voice echoing in the cement space. "The Stranded didn't have to take us in and let us use all these buildings."

"Don't kid yourself." Marcus growled over his shoulder as they clomped down another flight of stairs. "The Stranded aren't stupid. If they hadn't let us in, the COG would probably have driven them out anyways."

Dom raised his brows. "Really?"

"Sure. You know what they say about cornered animals."

The corporal shook his head in disbelief. As much as he disliked the idea of Gears chasing the Stranded out of Belphe out of sheer desperation, he knew that it wasn't an unlikely situation. The COG was on the edge, and the displacement of thousands of Stranded seemed like small potatoes when compared to the lives the hundreds of thousands of Jacinto refugees.

The two soldiers finally reached the bottom level and pushed through the splintering wooden doors at the motel's front.

The sun was up, and a busy day was already well underway in Belphe. Blinking in the early morning light, Dom lamented the fact that he'd probably gotten up too late to snag breakfast. Marcus stepped away from the motel's doors and began to shoulder through the crowds ahead of him.

"Come on."

Dom started after him. "Why? We got somewhere to be?"

"Unfortunately. Hoffman called a meeting with Delta squad this morning."

"You tell me this _now_?"

Marcus shot Dom a look; the corporal just groaned. "When's the meeting start?"

"Twenty minutes ago. Hurry up."

The men hustled along the tents and shacks, winding through the makeshift alleys. As they marched, Dom couldn't help but notice his friend's overly quiet demeanour. Sure, Marcus wasn't much for words, and no one expected him to share his feelings, but he was a different kind of quiet today. Since the moment he'd woken up, Dom sensed that the sergeant's mind was elsewhere.

They neared their destination—the large debriefing tent erected beside the Stranded's so-called 'City Hall'—and saw that the other half of Delta squad was already waiting for them at the entrance. Dom offered a nod of greeting to Cole and Baird.

Cole bounced anxiously from foot to foot. "Yo, 'bout time you two showed up. Hoffman's havin' a fit."

Dom sighed. "Excellent."

"Yeah, thanks to you jerks, we're probably going to get our asses handed to us in there." Baird scowled. "If, at any moment, it looks like that's going to happen, I expect to see some first-class colonel-boot-licking from you."

"Baird? Shut up." Marcus glared at the blonde Gear.

"What? It's not my fault that you decided to go and play Cops and Robbers all night."

Cole raised his brows quizzically at Marcus. "Oh yeah, baby, how did that work out for ya?"

Marcus heaved a sigh and rubbed his eyes. "Can we _please_ just get in and see Hoffman already?"

Realizing that every second passed would translate to another minute of emotional battering courtesy of the colonel, the squad all stepped inside the debriefing tent. Instantly, they were submersed in the hot, stagnant air. Baird snorted. "Whatever, it's probably just another pointless lecture on how we need to—"

"Private Baird! And all the rest of you! Ten-_SHUN_!"

Delta squad whipped around to face the front of the tent. Hoffman was standing there, looking livid and glaring daggers at Baird. The men hesitated for only a moment, then snapped to half-hearted attention. Dom took a deep breath and stared unblinking ahead. The very first thing he noticed was that Anya was sitting quietly on a stool in the corner.

She was wearing her innocuous grey uniform, and she was staring past Dom. Unsurprisingly, she was looking at Marcus. There was a strange look on her elegant face; Dom felt Marcus shift his weight beside him.

Hoffman cleared his throat and stepped forward, surveying the soldiers.

"Private Cole!" Hoffman barked.

"Sir, yes, sir."

"What time is it, Private?"

Cole glanced at the red digital clock sitting on Hoffman's desk.

"Oh-seven thirty, sir."

"That's right." The colonel paced in front of the men. "Fenix!"

"Sir."

"At what time did I request you and yours to attend this meeting?"

"Oh-seven-hundred hours, sir."

Dom hated it when Hoffman got like this; no one ever ordered veterans like Delta to stand at attention anymore. Being forced into it made Dom feel like he was back in the Academy, being yelled at by Major Stroud—Anya's mother—for lacing his boots too slowly.

Hoffman worked his wide jaw. "Can you read a clock, Fenix?"

Marcus' eyes were like ice. "I believe so, sir."

"Then why in the COG's name are you _half an hour late_?"

Baird made a near-inaudible cough that indicated that the boot-licking should begin promptly.

"It's my fault," Dom interjected suddenly. "...Sir."

Hoffman snapped a venomous scowl on the corporal. He looked like he was about to blow, but then Anya stood up.

"Sir, we need to get to the debriefing."

Hoffman blew a long breath through flared nostrils, then stepped back. "Yes, Lieutenant, thank you." The colonel dropped heavily into the chair behind his desk. "Alright, boys, at ease."

Delta relaxed their rigid posture and spread out in the cloistered space; Dom knew Marcus was still cautiously watching Anya. She stood calmly beside Hoffman's desk now, her posture straight and her hands clasped politely behind her back.

"Santiago!" Hoffman's voice ripped Dom's gaze from the staring match between the lieutenant and sergeant.

"Yes, sir?"

"How long've you been workin' at the secondary rations station?"

"Three days."

Hoffman nodded. "You like workin' at the secondary rations station?"

"I think you know the answer to that question, sir."

The colonel snorted, then leaned forward on the desk.

"Good news, then, Corporal. It looks like we've got a mission for your squad."

A tiny wave of relief washed over Dom—_finally_.

The chair squeaked as Hoffman rose and laid a map over his desk, which Dom, upon stepping closer, recognized as a map of Ilima, one of the fallen cities. The superior officer pulled out a red pen and traced a wide circle around the centre of the map.

"This, gentlemen," Hoffman said as the others gathered around. "Is the sunken section of Ilima."

Dom's brows rose slightly. It was a friggin' big section.

Hoffman then aimed the pen at a cluster of small suburban buildings just east of the sinkhole.

"Command just received word that Echo squad was stranded here durin' the sinking. As you know, Ilima is crawlin' with Locust, and anyone in the area would be trapped."

Dom saw Anya flinch from the corner of his eye, and he shot her an inquisitive glance. She looked up at him, but turned quickly away.

"We've got all our Ravens deployed on long-distance rescue missions, but we can send you boys down to Ilima in a Centaur," Hoffman continued. "Your objective is a simple search-and-rescue: find the soldiers, and escort them back to Belphe. Now, there've been reports of a Stranded outpost nearby, so stay on the lookout for them—"

Cole, evidently just as happy as Dom to be back on the field, gave a whoop of enthusiasm. But Dom saw that Marcus was staring at Anya again.

"I assume the lieutenant will be in contact via tac-com?" he asked quietly. It seemed like a weird thing to ask, considering how Anya had always been their comm worker.

Hoffman shook his head. "Not this time, Sergeant. Lieutenant Stroud has requested to accompany Delta on your mission."

The squad all whirled around to look questioningly at Anya, and Marcus narrowed his eyes at the woman. Anya met his gaze evenly. Dom felt the tent fill with unexpected tension.

"I used to live part-time in Ilima, Sergeant; I know the area better than anyone in your squad."

"She'll be an invaluable source of knowledge for you, Fenix," Hoffman added. Marcus said nothing.

"So, if there are no further questions, Delta, you can start your preparations for the mission. Your Centaur departs at oh-six-hundred _sharp_, Fenix." Hoffman sent one last glare Marcus' way. "_Not _oh-six thirty."

"Understood," Marcus replied flatly.

The colonel nodded, apparently satisfied. "Good. Alright, Delta, you're dismissed. Go bring our boys home."

Without another word, the men saluted and filed out of the cramped tent.

"Well, that wasn't so bad." Dom grinned as they regrouped outside. "I was expecting some serious ass-kickage."

"Hell yeah, baby, Delta squad's back!" Cole howled, drawing frightened stares from a group of civilian women by a building across the dusty street.

"Oh yeah, three cheers for Team Awesome." Baird rolled his eyes. "But the million dollar question is: what's with Blondie taggin' along for the ride?"

Dom stared at Marcus. Something about the wordless exchange between the two in the tent made Dom wonder if the sergeant didn't have something to do it. "Yeah, that was kind of weird," he said pointedly.

The sergeant shot Dom an _it's-not-like-I-asked-her-to-come _look, and he decided to drop the subject.

Baird, however, looked unconvinced. "Is she, like, even _trained_ for field combat?"

Marcus scowled. "Of course she is, dipshit. You don't get to be a lieutenant without going through all the other ranks first." Marcus glanced back at the tent. "I think Anya was one of the best students in her sidearm class."

Cole looked surprised. "So she's a gunner girl!"

"Hot." Baird smirked.

It was weird, Dom decided. They were being escorted on a mission by a CIC officer who hadn't seen the field in years, and Marcus was acting out in his typical _fuck-you-and-your-psychoanalysis-too_ way. It was just friggin' _weird_.

But it was what it was, and if life had taught Dom anything, it was don't mess with what you can't help. He sighed and walked over to Marcus, whacking his friend on the shoulder.

"So, Marcus, back to the greenhorn drilling?"

Marcus hesitated, then turned to Dom.

"Hey," he said in a strangely quiet voice. "Feel like helping a buddy out?"

* * *

The water was lukewarm, but it still felt amazing as it trickled through her fingers and down her face. She splashed herself with water again and scrubbed the dirt of the day from her features. Looking up at the tiny shaving mirror hanging from the wall, the woman watched as droplets of water rolled down her neck to be absorbed into her white cotton undershirt. She closed her eyes; breathed in; breathed out. For a moment, it was almost like she was in her bathroom back at home, just getting ready to jump in her comfy bed and go to sleep...

"Evening, Stroud." A feminine voice brought her crashing back to her stuffy room in one of the motels that made up the makeshift lodgings for Gears. Anya stood up from the water bucket and turned towards the voice.

"Evening, Captain Sarkovsky." Anya gave a small nod of greeting to the middle-aged woman who had walked in from the hallway. Katarin Sarkovsky was a nurse-turned-soldier who, under Doc Hayman, was in charge of much of the medical proceedings in the army. She was tall and willowy, but something about her face told you in no certain terms that she would have no qualms about pinning you down and jabbing your ass with a needle. She also happened to be Anya's temporary roommate.

Upon seeing Anya's stiff stance, Katarin shook her fading brunette head and crossed the room.

"Anya, you don't have to use my formal address every time I waltz in here," she said, kneeling by a tired-looking duffle bag and removing some papers from its side pocket. "You've been spending too much time with the colonel."

Anya sighed. "Tell me about it. He's wearing me to the bone, Katarin." The lieutenant bit her lip; she didn't want to start whining at the superior officer. "He's just been so wound up lately."

Katarin gave a graceful little snort of laughter and straightened up. "That sounds like Hoffman. He's been keeping a choke hold on us and the medical activity. Doc Hayman's going to murder him long before the Locust do. But even so, I'm glad that he's keeping on top of things. We need someone in control."

"I suppose." Anya released her hair from its tight bun and shook her fingers through the golden tresses.

"Well, he couldn't be _that_ terrible. I heard he granted your request to accompany Delta squad on that search and rescue mission."

The lieutenant closed her eyes for a brief moment, then plunked herself down on her mattress and began to unlace her knee-high boots. "Yes, I guess he did."

"See? He acts like an absolute bear around the men, but he's still just a big softie for all the girls." Katarin quickly leafed through her papers, then glanced at her fellow officer, thin brows knitting in confusion.

"You're packing it in already? The sun's barely set."

"I've got a pick-up early tomorrow morning. Hoffman ordered us all to take the night off and get a good sleep."

Katarin's thin lips twisted into a knowing grin. "What did I tell you? Bigsoftie." The captain dusted herself off and headed for the motel room's peeling door. "Well, some of us have some miraculous life-saving to do."

"Um, have fun."

"Always," Katarin called from the hallway before shutting the door.

The lieutenant leaned back from her half-laced boots and stretched her back. After Emergence Day, the COG had finally done away with the regulation high-heels that had been mandatory for all female officers. The new standard issue footwear had been a pair of knee-high leather boots, and Anya was more than grateful.

The door suddenly creaked ajar, Katarin's face filling the gap between in the enjambment.

"Ehm...Lieutenant Stroud?"

Anya went back down to yank at her boots. "Yes?"

There was a scuffling as Katarin slipped back inside the room.

"Lieutenant." There was a curious strain in the captain's voice. "There's a sergeant here to see you."

Anya looked up so fast that she cracked her neck.

"Agh! What? Why? I'll...just give me a sec..."

Shuffling past Katarin and rubbing her neck, the lieutenant peered around the open door.

"Oh...Evening, Sergeant Fenix."

Marcus nodded. "Likewise, Lieutenant."

Anya was suddenly uncomfortably aware of her unprofessional state of undress—of which the sergeant was also becoming aware—and she wanted to get whatever this was over with quickly.

"How can I help you, Sergeant?"

Marcus glanced over Anya's shoulder, seemingly sizing up the superior officer standing awkwardly there. "May I speak to you privately, Lieutenant?"

_So much for getting this over with quickly_. Anya nodded reluctantly and stepped back into the room, Marcus close behind. As they entered, Katarin pushed past them, flashing Anya a matronly _don't-do-anything-Hoffman-wouldn't-approve-of _look as she left.

Anya ignored the warning and wrestled her hair into a hasty ponytail. As per usual, Marcus' face was a blank slate, his posture calm and relaxed beneath his fatigues—what was he thinking? If he was here to berate her about last night, then surely he would have torn into her by now.

"Well?" her voice seemed small inside the empty room.

The sergeant gazed evenly at her. "Permission to speak freely, Lieutenant."

Anya arched her brows. All the uncharacteristic formal address was throwing her off. "Permission granted, _Sergeant_."

Marcus' eyes reduced to slits. "What the hell are you doing? Running off on some secret mission of yours?"

For a fraction of a second, the lieutenant was caught off guard. But then she simply stuck out her chin and met the man's eyes.

"How'd you sleuth that one out, Sarge?"

"Simple," he growled. "First you start stockpiling supplies for travelling, then you sign up to head out into one of the most dangerous areas this side of Anvegad? Come on."

"And what makes you think I'm going to 'run off' to _Ilima_?"

Marcus' shoulders hunched in a non-commital shrug. "You could've signed for any other mission, but you chose Ilima...And you flinch every time it's mentioned."

Anya narrowed her eyes at his ridiculous, yet accurate reasoning. Huffing, she whirled around and strode over to her mattress. "Congratulations, you figured me out," she said. "But you can't stop me from leaving."

"Without the rest of the supplies? We ship out tomorrow."

"I've...I've got most of what I need already."

Marcus snorted, calling her obvious bluff. "Wherever you're going, you can't possibly make it, Anya."

The lieutenant glanced over her shoulder. "Watch me." She began to pack her meagre gathering of things into her nearby duffle bag in an attempt to make him realize she was serious. "Oh, and you won't be getting your Xanthine back. Sorry."

The sound of the sergeant's boots scuffing across the dirty wooden floorboards made Anya look up.

"Alright...Look, I was hoping I'd manage to beat it out of you before doing this, but..."

Anya turned back around to face the man; his features were devoid of sarcasm. She watched as he reached into a pack on his ammo belt and produced a small, scratched metal case. Xanthine.

The woman stared at the case, then at its holder.

"Marcus, I...don't understand."

He extended the Xanthine to Anya. "There's a small cargo box waiting in the alley behind this motel; it's filled with trail rations, flashlights, ammo, and a couple other things I'm sure you forgot," he said quietly.

"But...how?" Anya frowned.

"It's all authorized by the chief monitor of the secondary rations station."

Anya gaped. Mutely, she took the case from Marcus' hand. "I...Thank you. You have no idea what this means to me." She glanced down at the Xanthine, her fingers rubbing back and forth over the smooth metal casing. She still couldn't believe it; she had everything she needed now. Granted, the lieutenant didn't know what kind of mad fog Marcus was in the grips of, but she wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"Okay...so I'll just grab the supplies, and sneak away from the mission when everyone is..."

Suddenly, she felt Marcus' gaze on her; she looked up.

"You're not going alone."

Anya's shoulders fell, and she resisted the urge to bludgeon the man with the metal case.

"No. Absolutely not."

Marcus' face was like stone. "Too bad you don't have a choice."

The lieutenant shot him a weary glare. "Oh, let me guess: you're going to take all the supplies back unless I let you tag along? Give me a break." She pulled away and let out a massive sigh of frustration. She could hear Marcus take a step forward.

"After this mission, I'll be back drilling rooks. That's it."

The woman rubbed her eyes viciously. "What? You're saying they don't need you? What happened to 'we can't take off whenever we want to'?"

"Anya." His deep voice vibrated in the metal of her COG tags. "You and I both know that whatever it is you're planning on taking on, you _can't do it alone_."

In that moment, his logical words broke her resolve. It was true; as much as she tried to convince herself otherwise, Anya knew that she was only one woman, and not a very survival-adept one at that. Perhaps, if things were different, she would have argued further with Marcus, but there was just too much at stake. Nodding slowly, Anya turned around.

"Alright, alright," she relented softly. "But...if you get yourself killed, I am in no way responsible."

Marcus nodded. "Understood, Lieutenant."

Anya wondered if she should tell him now, explain her reasons for her desperation while there was still no one to listen in. She opened her mouth, then hesitated.

Marcus must have seen the trepidation etched in her face, because he sighed and shook his head.

"Tomorrow," he said firmly, holding her gaze for a long moment. Marcus then gave Anya a clap on the shoulder, and she watched as the enormous man turned and made for the exit.

"Oh, and tie up your boots," the sergeant called over his shoulder. "Your mother would've kicked your ass."

Anya stared down at her partially-laced boots and smiled. The tension between her and the soldier was finally relieved; she was all too happy for it.

The door clicked behind the sergeant. Suddenly exhausted, Anya fell back on her mattress and kicked off her boots at last. For some reason, she was incredibly comforted knowing that Marcus Fenix would be at her side.

She needed it: she knew she was in store for the most difficult days of her life.


	4. Elusion

**Chapter Three: Elusion**

The Centaur bounced and jerked as it clambered over the rough terrain. A particularly stubborn boulder caused the tank to buck violently, and the Snub pistol slipped from Anya's loose hold.

"Goddammit!" Baird performed a ridiculous dance in an effort to avoid the clattering weapon. "Hey! Maybe try to keep a friggin' hold on that thing, will you?"

A roar of laughter erupted from the gunner turret above them. "Aw, poor baby Baird's scared of a little bouncin' gun!" Cole's disembodied voice yelled.

Baird whacked the hatch to the turret. "Guns fucking _kill_ people, Cole!"

Anya hurriedly leaned out of her passenger seat to retrieve her fallen gun. "I'm sorry. The safety's on, though."

"Oh, _sure_. That's what you say, then you holster it and _bang_. You kill your goddamn feet."

Anya cradled the Snub in her lap and immediately proceeded to stare at her boots. Inwardly, the lieutenant was actually a little intimidated by all this; this was the first time she had held a loaded gun in months, and while she refused to show it outright, she was more than a little nervous at the thought of being back out in the field. She had joined the army under the strong—if sometimes harsh—guidance of her mother, and after the Major's death, it was all Anya could do to maintain her position as a communications officer. She wanted to serve her nation and fight for mankind's survival just as much as the next soldier, but she had gotten used to doing it from behind a wall of screens in the far-removed offices of the CIC.

Sighing, the woman slumped back against the metal. She had been a little wary of trading in her familiar grey uniform for her fitted field armour, and while she was grateful for the mobility it allowed, she had yet to get used to its weight.

"So, I hear you're into sidearms," Baird teased as he planted himself in one of the passenger seats opposite Anya, stretching his arms back behind his head.

"Uh, not really?" Anya replied, her gaze moving from her boots to the pistol in her hands. She ran her gloved fingers over the shiny black metal-carbon composite of the gun's body. Ensuring the safety was on—more for Baird's sake than her own—she touched the delicate trigger. She couldn't help but admire the way the polished barrel gleamed in the orange glow of the Centaur's low-lights.

No, Anya couldn't say she was 'into' guns. Of course, she had dealt with them, and knew how to use them. She had to; she was a Gear. Just because she served from behind a desk in a communications room all day didn't mean she didn't know how to _kill_ people. The opportunity just hadn't arisen in days of late.

A dull clank echoed in the Centaur, and Dom ducked out of the square door that led to the driver's hatch. The corporal jerked his head back towards the driver's hatch.

"Marcus wants you. Said he needs your 'expertise on the area'."

Anya had completely forgotten about her feigned purpose on this mission, and she strained to keep the surprise from creeping onto her face. The vehicle bumped wildly; Anya struggled out of her seat, which Dom took without hesitating.

"Hey," Cole called after the lieutenant as she stepped down into the hatch. "Tell him to take it easy with the crazy-ass stunt driving!"

Anya smiled and closed the heavy door behind her. She knew just what kind of effect "crazy-ass stunt driving" had on Cole's fragile stomach.

"Sit down."

The gravelly command made Anya spin around. The voice's owner sat in the wide driver's chair, his face glacial and his eyes like steel. Anya obeyed and plunked herself down in the uncomfortable co-driver seat. Marcus was staring unblinking at the endless expanse of rocky terrain beyond the smudged windshield. His hands were glued to the steering wheel, moving rhythmically to guide the tank past particularly large obstacles.

"You want my 'expertise'?" Anya prompted.

The man's gaze never strayed from the debris-laden path. "I want you to sit down."

Anya shifted uncomfortably, unsure of how to respond. Surely, he didn't want her here simply for companionship. He was up to something.

Deciding to wait for the sergeant to make the next move, the woman looked out at the barren landscape. It was just _grey_, for miles and miles. The blank skyline boasted nothing more remarkable than a few cracked boulders and dead trees.

Marcus broke the relative silence.

"How're you holding up under that armour?"

Anya looked down at her scratched breastplate. "I think I'm getting used to it. It's...a change of pace from my old uniform skirt." There was a faint smile on her lips, but she knew her discomfort was obvious. The COG had three classes of armour, ranked from first-grade to third; heaviest to lightest. Like all ranking Gears, Marcus wore first-grade armour, whereas Anya had been issued a modified third-grade set. Most of the armour was devoted to protecting her torso, with only minor plating on her boots and forearms. The carbon-composite casing was thick enough to stop most long-range shots, and even minor frag shrapnel, but anything more powerful than a Hammerburst rifle would rip right through.

"You ready to work out that trigger finger of yours?"

Anya looked down at her pistol. "I suppose I don't have much of a choice."

"Good, 'cause you're gonna be using it soon."

Something in the way he had spoken made Anya raise her brow.

"Oh?"

Predictably, the sergeant's stoic face gave no clue to what was going on in his head. "If we're gonna leave Delta and make off into Ilima, we're gonna have to get creative."

_So that's what this is about_. A couple hours into the rescue mission, and he was already making plans for their great escape. Anya leaned forward in her seat and rested her chin in her palm.

"What've you got, Sarge?"

Marcus tugged the steering wheel slowly to the right. "We need a distraction: something to preoccupy the team while we make a break for it."

"Right." Anya nodded. "So, I'm guessing that this 'distraction' is going to be a battle?"

"You can think of a more distracting distraction?"

It made sense. "What about the squad? We can't just...run away."

"Dom's in on it. He's gonna keep it on the down-low until we can break off. After that, he'll handle everything else."

It was only then that Anya understood how difficult this must be for Marcus. He had been the leader of Delta for a long time now, and had become the sturdy pillar that supported both the team and its many members. Soldiers came and went through Delta like the seasons—even regulars like Cole and Baird were occasionally reassigned to other squads—but Marcus had always remained at the heart of the squad. Now, he was going to abandon his team, his men, and his post, all for her sake. The sincerest appreciation for the sergeant suddenly burned in Anya's chest.

"And the mission?" the woman prompted. "Will Delta be able to complete it with two soldiers MIA?"

Marcus shrugged. "The guys are perfectly capable of pickin' up a few stranded Gears on their own. And frankly, your being MIA isn't really going to affect the outcome of anything."

"Hey," Anya shot back playfully, her mind put at ease by the man's confidence. "I'm far more influential than you credit me for."

"Nah, you're just a coordinate dispenser." Marcus' partial attempt at teasing was a welcome relief. "Speaking of which..."

"Oh, you're actually going to use me for what I came here for?"

The sergeant gave a _you-bet-your-ass_ grunt. "Any idea where the main supply road is?"

"Uh, it runs along the east side of the city, through the industrial districts. Or, at least, it did," Anya replied, puzzled. "Why are you asking about the main supply road?"

"Supply roads are wide enough to accommodate a Centaur, and they're usually built away from the heavy-traffic roads, so they're more likely to have survived the sinking."

. Once again, Anya marveled at the man's infallible logic. Then, the image of the map of Ilima flashed in the lieutenant's mind, and she realized that the supply road would take Delta straight to the place where the estranged troops were staked out. Anya stared at Marcus: even though he was leaving his men on their own, he was still doing everything he could to help them rescue those soldiers.

"You're a good leader, Marcus," she said suddenly. The sergeant turned to look at her; his surprise at her spontaneous sincerity shadowed his scarred face, and Anya felt a bit silly for saying anything at all. They sat, staring at each other, until there was a thump at the hatch door.

"Yo! Mister Marcus Driver Sergeant Man!" Cole's strained voice boomed through ten inches of metal. "Things ain't goin' so smooth for the Cole Train back here! You even _lookin'_ at the road, man?"

"_What fuckin' road, Cole?_" Marcus barked back, but pulled himself back to full attention at the wheel.

Minutes ticked by, and the two sat in silence as the Centaur negotiated the tumultuous path to Ilima. Anya sat back in the stiff chair and scanned the empty landscape for any sign of the sunken city.

_Her home._

A phantom-like plume of black smoke crested the horizon, and Anya jerked upright. As the Centaur raced closer, the plume became a column.

"Marcus. Look."

More smoke rose into the low clouds.

"Yeah, I see it."

The vast majority of Ilima had fallen far below the surface of Sera, but even after all these days, the surviving outskirts of the city were still burning. The main Ilimian power plant had blown during the initial sinking, and the massive explosion seemed to have set a multitude of smaller fires around the city.

Marcus pressed a heavy boot into the brake, and the Centaur grinded to a halt. They were less than a mile away from Ilima's closest standing building. He put a finger to his ear-mounted tac-com.

"Alright, Delta, we're here, so listen up. There've been reports of everything from grub outposts to Corpser holes in this place, so stay sharp, and remember what we're here to do."

The sergeant placed his hands back on the thick steering wheel, but kept his foot off the gas. The vehicle's engine growled impatiently; Anya sensed the sudden shift in the air of the tiny hatch.

"Anya?"

"...Yes?"

"This had better be good."

Anya realized with a start that he was talking about her personal mission—the one on which he was blindly following her. The woman furrowed her brow, painfully aware of the faith that this man—her friend—had in her.

"Marcus, trust me when I say that it is the single most important thing I will ever do."

She held his gaze for a long moment, and then he snorted and turned back to the wheel.

"Well shit. With confidence like that, I guess I don't have much of a choice."

He pushed the gas pedal down to the floor, and the Centaur lurched eagerly towards the broken city.

* * *

The sergeant glanced at the digital clock embedded in the dashboard. They had been cruising through the city for eighteen minutes, and there was still no sign of the Locust. Toppled skyscrapers and warehouses surrounded the team, submersing them in a blackened world of torn steel and crumbling concrete. Ashes floated like shreds of ghosts through the thick smoky air. The broken scape of Ilima's slums had allowed the squad to pass freely through its cratered streets without incident, with nothing more than the incessant crackle of the fires to disturb the eerie calm.

"_Ah_," Baird's sarcastic voice buzzed in Marcus' tac-com. "_The_ _concrete, the steel, the urban disease_."

As far as Delta was concerned, the lack of hostile activity was just fine, but Marcus was on edge. After reading Hoffman's report on the area, he had been expecting a wave of Locust attacks the moment they got within range, and this strange silence made him wonder if they weren't sauntering directly into a trap.

The paranoid wheels of a fighter's mind never stopped spinning.

Marcus allowed himself a glance to his right, where Anya sat. She was perched on the edge of her seat, one thumb running anxiously along the barrel of her sidearm. Every time they were together, the silence between them was coarse; rubbed raw by the words that hadn't been said, yet so desperately needed to. He had thrown in his chips with her; now that they were so far out of Belphe, there was no turning back. And yet somehow, Marcus still had no idea what Anya was up to.

Being in the dark was not something the sergeant enjoyed.

"Alright, Stroud," he began. "I think it's high time you filled me in on what the hell you're planning on doing out there."

Anya flinched. Marcus was staring out at a cluster of street-side warehouses, but he didn't need to look at the woman to know that he'd caught her off-guard.

"I..."

She stopped, swallowed, and opened her mouth.

_Here we go._

"I need to find my goddaughter."

Marcus twisted in his seat to stare at Anya; an instant later, an explosion of brick and re-bar rocked the Centaur.

A spider web of cracks struck out across the windshield. Marcus stomped on the brakes, and the armoured vehicle came skidding to a halt.

There was a breathless moment, then the hatch door flew open and Dom stumbled down between the two seats.

"What the hell was that?"

It took Marcus a moment to recover from the two rapid shocks he'd just received.

"I...shit. Hold on."

He turned back around and glared at the cracked windshield in a vain effort to see the cause of the explosion. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Anya was shaking slightly.

"Marcus? Did you see anything?" Dom asked a more direct question.

The sergeant shook his head, then cursed. Between the cracks and the dust from the explosion, he was effectively blind. He pressed his tac-com. "Cole, can you see anything from the turret?"

"_Negative, Sarge,_" came Cole's crackling reply. "_Just a bunch o' dust!_"

A growl resonated deep in Marcus' chest, and he stood from the driver's seat.

"Get back." Once Dom and Anya had scrambled behind the seats, Marcus braced his boot against the windshield, drew it back, and smashed it through the glass, sending shattered shards out into the street outside.

Reclaiming his seat, the sergeant sat at his now uninhibited view of the road. The dust had settled, and luckily for Delta, no other signs of attack had followed the explosion. On the other end of the street, less than a block away from the Centaur, the charred walls of an obliterated warehouse were collapsing into the road.

Marcus leaned back and clamped his hands to the steering wheel. He was still reeling from the little bombshell Anya had dropped prior to the explosion, but this demanded his attention; he could have _sworn _he had seen something inside that warehouse just before it blew. He motioned for Anya to seat herself, then turned back to the open doorway. Baird now stood behind Dom, and Cole was staring down from the turret: Delta awaited their leader's orders.

The sergeant exhaled slowly. "Okay guys, we were lucky, but we still don't know what's out there. Dom, you and Baird check over the Centaur's vitals, make sure everything survived that blast. Cole, keep an eye on that warehouse while I drive; I don't want anything sneaking up on us. And Anya," Marcus glanced at the lieutenant. "Relax."

Anya gave him an unsteady nod, then straightened her posture and held the pistol ready. Marcus turned back to the front and put his foot to the gas.

"Stay sharp, Delta. We're going in."

_"...Why does Anya get shotgun?"_

"Baird, don't make me come back there."

The tank crawled warily towards the blown warehouse, crushing smoking debris beneath its massive tires. As the warehouse came closer and closer, Marcus strained to glimpse its blackened interior, but the roof had caved too far in.

"I'm so sorry," Anya blurted suddenly. Marcus glanced at her; her eyes were barely closed, and her hands were clutching the edge of her seat. "I should have told you earlier. It's just that I knew they wouldn't send a whole team just to rescue one girl and..."

"Anya...not now."

"I mean, first Ilima sank, and now, after Jacinto, everything's so crazy—"

"Anya." Marcus shot his lieutenant a look from the corner of his eye. "_Not. Now_."

His gruff words seemed to pull Anya out of her trance-like ramble, and she inhaled deeply.

"Right." She nodded. "Right. Sorry."

"_Baird here._" The tac-com crackled in Marcus' ear. "_Check complete: the hull took a beating, but everything seems to be working just fine._"

At last, they coasted past the warehouse, and nothing happened. Still, something in the man's gut told him that this was not over.

"Thanks, Baird," Marcus replied. "Let's just put as much distance between us and—"

He trailed off as a deep rumbling caused the metal of the Centaur's hull to vibrate. Marcus and Anya exchanged looks as the rumbling grew into a low roar. Shards of glass were bouncing around on the dashboard.

"_Maaaarcus,_" Dom sang worriedly into the tac-com, but the sergeant's boot was already weighing heavy on the gas. The roar was getting louder; Anya clenched the dash as the Centaur jumped away from the now-trembling warehouse ruins.

"Hold on, Delta!" Marcus yelled, but he was drowned out as the roar became a piercing screech.

"_Corpser!_"

Marcus slammed his foot down on the pedal, but it wasn't fast enough, and the ground began to quake violently. He could only watch as a single, spider-like leg the size of a tree crashed into the front of the Centaur. It was joined by another leg, and then another; the Centaur shook violently as the Corpser raked its metal hull, rendering the soldiers within completely useless.

Then, as though in a dream, the Corpser slowly dragged the Centaur around. The grating screech of metal on concrete rattled in their eardrums, and Marcus and Anya were suddenly face to face with the enormous, diabolical monster. Its countless eyes rolled and shone like fiery gems, and its eight legs struck savagely at the vehicle. For an instant, the soldiers were stunned into paralysis; the behemoth's chittering maw gaped open and released a mind-shattering scream.

"Shit!" Marcus forced himself into action and tried desperately to speed away from the Corpser's grasp. "It's got a hold on us!"

The street rocked as Cole unleashed a rocket at the monster. The shell exploded in the Corpser's face, taking out several gleaming eyes, but doing jack all to slow the creature. Anya cried out; the Corpser began to push on the Centaur, flipping it end over end, and the vehicle rolled slowly back, like a wounded beast falling back into quicksand.

"Hold on!" The sergeant vaulted from his seat in an effort to grab Anya just as the vehicle flipped heavily backwards.

There was a deafening crash, and Marcus plummeted into blackness. He tasted rusted pennies.

—

The sergeant opened his eyes to the blurry interior of the ruined tank. The Corpser's shriek rang dully in his head, but his survival instincts screamed at him to get up. The sergeant struggled to his hands and knees, ignoring the hot stab of pain in his shoulder, and began to search the dusty Centaur.

"Anya!" He'd had her just a few seconds ago, where was she?

"Marcus?"

A deep voice; male. _Not Anya_. Twisted debris clattered just to Marcus' right, and a battered Dom emerged from the wreckage.

"Marcus, we gotta get outta here!"

"We...need to get Anya...and the others..."

Dom shook his head, then braced himself as the Centaur shook in turn. "Baird and Cole made it out with me. I came back for you two!"

"Then get your ass over here and help me look for her!"

Together, they raked the debris for any sign of the lieutenant. Marcus realized now that the Centaur had been turned upside-down; standing on the vehicle's roof disoriented the already foggy-minded soldier.

Then, the sergeant spotted a limp hand under the fallen weapons rack and scrambled over to it.

"Dom, over here!"

There was a painful moan as he hoisted the rack off the lieutenant. Anya looked groggily up at him, blood trickling down the side of her face.

"Alright, alright, I got you."

Dom helped Marcus pulled Anya to her feet, and the sergeant wrapped her arm over his neck. The Centaur rocked and creaked as the Corpser resumed its attack; Marcus knew there wasn't much time.

"_Marcus!_" Baird's tinny voice erupted in the sergeant's ear. "_Marcus, are you there?_"

Marcus shouted into his tac-com as he half-walked, half-dragged his lieutenant to the vehicle's exit.

"We're here, Baird!"

_"Get your ass moving! That Corpser is ripping the tank to shreds!_"

The tank crashed again; the metal of the hull was twisting all around them, crushing in on itself like a beer can. Grunting with the effort, Marcus pulled both him and Anya through the smashed windshield and out onto the cracked pavement; Dom was quick to leap out behind them. The three charged across the street and, with one last burst of energy, threw themselves behind some cement roadblocks. Moments later, the Corpser completely destroyed what was left of the armoured vehicle, and dragged it back off the street.

Marcus, Anya, and Dom knelt in the cover of the roadblocks, waiting while the monster began to tear at the nearby buildings. Soon, the sound of shuffling boots and heavy breathing reached the trio, and Marcus turned to watch as Baird and Cole slid safely into cover.

"You alright?" Baird shouted over the Corpser's screech.

Marcus rolled his aching shoulder. "Yeah. What about you guys?"

"Cole's leg is bleeding pretty bad," Baird interjected while pelting the Corpser with Lancer fire. "But he said he's fine."

"Nothing stops the Cole Train, baby! Whoo!" Cole emphasized his personal slogan by unloading a couple rounds into the smoky air.

Dom then aimed a concerned glance at Anya, who—while fully conscious—was curled up numbly at Marcus' side. A trickle of blood marred her temple.

"She'll be okay." Marcus said, seeing his friend's gaze. Of course she would: there was no way he was going to let her flake out on him now. Marcus pulled his Lancer out from its place on his back, preparing to attack the frenzied Corpser, but was stopped when he felt Dom's hand on his shoulder.

"Marcus." The younger soldier reached behind him and procured several armour-mountable supply packs. Marcus immediately recognized them as the supplies that he and Anya needed for their trip. Everything wasn't all there, but it was enough to last a few days.

"How the hell did you—?"

The Corpser screamed, a swing of its long leg narrowly missing Baird's head.

"Oh yeah?" the blonde soldier spat. "Well, fuck you too, you giant piece of Locust shit! This is for eating my tank!"

"Whoo, hell yeah, baby! Baird's getting his _game_ on!"

Dom furrowed his brow at Marcus. "Just get out of here." The corporal tossed the packs to his friend, a grim smile painted on his features. Marcus gave a grateful nod, then began to don the packs; he belted two smaller packs to his thighs, and one to his ammo belt. Turning to Anya, he shook her into awareness—none too gently—and began to attach the remaining pack around her waist.

"Come on, Stroud. Let's go."

The lieutenant wiped the blood from her eyes and brought herself up to her knees. She didn't say anything, but Marcus knew she was reviving quickly.

"Frag out!"

Baird sent a grenade soaring through the smoky air, and the resulting blast sent bits of concrete flying across the street.

"Alright, Lieutenant, this is it." Marcus kept his voice low so the others wouldn't hear—not that it was necessary, with the cacophony of the battle all around them. "This is our distraction. We gotta go _now._"

Anya's clear green eyes burned with sudden determination, as though remembering her ultimate purpose on this mission. Marcus nodded, satisfied, and turned to his squad mates.

"This isn't working, guys. The lieutenant and I...we're going to try to get a better angle on this bastard."

Baird gave a grunt of reply, and Marcus and Anya crawled to the edge of the cover.

"Where are we going to go?" Anya yelled in Marcus' ear. The sergeant was glad to hear his comrade speaking again, but he didn't have much in the way of an escape. Seeming to recognize his hesitation, the woman frantically searched the chaotic scene around her, then pointed to a tunnelled stairway that dove below the city's surface.

"See that? That'll take us to the city subway. It runs all though Ilima."

Marcus saw the subway entrance; it was about a hundred feet from their position. It looked dark. "You're forgetting about the giant-ass sinkhole. What are the chances the subways are still connecting up anymore?"

Anya narrowed her eyes. "Only one way to find out." Maybe she was driven by fear, adrenaline, or some blood-pumping combination of the two, but she tumbled out of cover and made a mad dash for the tunnel. Marcus tossed a final look of thanks over his shoulder at Dom—which the man returned—and ran after the lieutenant, keeping his head down and praying that his men kept the Corpser preoccupied.

There was an ear-piercing shriek; Marcus felt the ground shake.

"Go, Anya, go!" he yelled after the blur of a woman in front of him.

Out of the corner of his eye, the sergeant saw a flying Corpser leg, and he dove to the side just in time to avoid being side-swiped. The tunnel was so close now. A mad second later, he and Anya just barely catapulted down into the subway as three massive legs pounded into the cement behind them.

The two tumbled down the stairs to land on the grimy white tile floor, gasping for breath. The crashing booms of the battle above were distant now, and Marcus rose, pressing a finger to his ear.

"Alright, that's it. Delta Two, this is getting too hot. You gotta fall back."

"_What?_" Baird's voice was barely audible over the clamour of gunfire and Corpser roars.

"I said, fall back!" Marcus barked. "Radio in when you're in a safe zone."

"_What the fuck? I thought you_—"

_"Roger that, Marcus,"_ Dom clipped in, playing along. _"Dom out."_

Marcus wasn't happy with the outcome, but he didn't have much of a choice. Slowly, the sounds of battle faded away, and even the Corpser's shrieks subsided as the dumb beast lost its prey. They had successfully separated themselves, and were now on their own.

_Successfully abandoned his men, more like it._

The sergeant pushed the thought away. He was the one who demanded to come, wasn't he? In an effort to pull himself back into a state of motivation, he looked to the reason he was on this crazy ride. "Anya, you okay?"

The woman was sitting haphazardly on the floor, pressing a hand to the thin gash on her forehead. She gave a tired nod. Marcus squatted by her and inspected the wound.

"Come on, let's take five."

Marcus pulled Anya from the floor, and the pair trudged over to a nearby ticket booth. Anya hoisted herself heavily onto the counter, and moments later, their tac-coms buzzed to life.

"_Marcus, you read?_" It was Dom. "_We fell back, and now we're in some kind of park._"

"_Your 'better angle' was really helpful, by the way. Very effective._" Baird's typical remark singed the line.

"_So, Marcus._" Dom again. "_...what are your orders?_"

Marcus hesitated, staring at Anya. No matter what he said, he knew that Dom would go along without question. In the background, the sergeant could hear Baird flipping shit over the obliterated Centaur. Anya looked up at Marcus. He saw the appreciation in her face.

"Your orders haven't changed." the sergeant said grimly. "You follow that supply road, and you rescue Echo."

Static filled the line, then Baird's confused voice came through.

"_What the hell are you talking about, man? We're waiting for you; get your ass over here!_"

"No, Baird, you're not. You're going to follow the road and _find those Gears._" Marcus growled. "Dom will lead your squad."

_Their squad. Not his._

"_But_—"

"You have your orders, soldier! Now _move._" Marcus' voice echoed through the empty subway tunnels.

"Fenix out."

With that, the sergeant went radio silent and blew a long breath through his nose. It was all up to Dom now; he'd have to trust Dom to fill Baird and Cole in, then lead them to Echo. Marcus was confident in Dom's abilities, but he still couldn't help but feel like he was running out on them.

This was, by every definition in the COG dictionary, dereliction of duty; God knew he was still suffering the consequences of his first run-in with that charge.

Anya was rummaging through her pack, all the while trying to keep the blood out of her eyes. Marcus sighed and reached into his own packs. He pulled a wad of gauze and a bandage from one, then tossed it to the lieutenant.

"Alright," he said, crossing his arms over his broad chest. Anya dabbed her cut with the gauze and glanced up at him. "You want to explain to me exactly what you mean by _goddaughter?_"

One of the sickly white lights above them flickered spastically.

"Look, it's a really long story..."

"We've got time."

Anya sighed, pulling the gauze from her temple and taking the bandage in hand.

"Do you remember where I went during my days off, back before Jacinto?"

Marcus nodded. In the years before he was sent to prison, Anya had been known for packing up and leaving for Ilima every time she got more than a twenty-four hour leave.

"You used to come here, to Ilima. Thought you had a house or something."

"Yes. It was kind of like a summer home for me. I shared it with a friend of mine, along with her daughter."

The shadow of understanding crossed Marcus' stony face.

"They were probably evacuated before the sinking." the sergeant offered, guessing at Anya's train of thought.

At this, Anya's face contorted into a pained grimace—Marcus knew it wasn't from the wound on her forehead.

"You don't understand. My friend, she died three years ago."

As much as he tried, Marcus couldn't stop his brows from jerking skyward. Three years ago; he was serving his second year of time three years ago. _Shit_. He hated being reminded that the world had not waited for him during his sentence; that life had carried on as usual for everyone else.

"And the kid?" Marcus prompted, becoming aware of the sudden potential for tragedy. _Your goddaughter._

"I couldn't live in Ilima full-time with her, so I did my best to try to get her to into Jacinto with me, but then things got so hectic. I did the least I could and hired a care worker to stay with her when I couldn't."

The tone in Anya's voice told Marcus that that was all the time.

"And then Ilima sank," the sergeant reasoned; he thought he could see Anya's motive clearly now.

The lieutenant smoothed the bandage to her temple. "And then Ilima sank," she repeated. "I haven't heard from either her or the worker since...No one can find any record of them anywhere."

It all made sense now. Anya had been right: as cavalier as they pictured themselves, the COG wouldn't send a whole rescue effort for a single child, especially when most of Ilima had been safely evacuated. So Anya's only option was to go out and stage her own rescue mission. Alone, it would have been suicide, but Marcus couldn't condemn Anya for her courage. Given the same circumstances, Marcus would probably do the exact same thing.

_You _were_ in the same situation, and you _did_ do the same thing_. Marcus winced involuntarily. He hoped that this ended better than that had.

It was then that the sergeant saw there were tears in Anya's eyes.

"She's just a child, Marcus. I'm her only hope."

At this, the man raised his brow.

"Well, not anymore."

Of course, a dozen and more questions were racing around in Marcus' head. Children inevitably complicated things, especially when war and rampant death were so deeply intertwined. But in spite of his own curiosity, he knew that now was not the time. Anya was on the brink, and right now, she just needed a pillar to lean on.

A smile shone through the woman's tears.

"Now comes the hard part," Marcus said, distracting her again as she began to pack up. "How are we gonna find one girl in a big, half-sunk city?"

At this, a glimmer of actual hope flitted across Anya's face. She wiped the un-shed tears away. "You remember that Stranded outpost Hoffman mentioned? I looked into that report, and it looks like a convoy of Ilimian survivors made camp with some Stranded in the City Hospital."

"And you know the girl will be there?" Marcus knew he had to keep things realistic; shit got out of hand when he didn't.

But Anya had already asked herself the same question. "My house—her house—is close to the hospital. The care worker I left her with...she would have brought her there, I'm sure..."

The lieutenant trailed off, and Marcus nodded. That was a good enough answer for him. "What's her name?" he asked suddenly.

Anya glanced up, almost surprised. She gave a little laugh.

"Jacqueline. Jacqueline Spence."

Marcus just nodded.

"Alright," he said gruffly, extending a hand to Anya. "Time to get your boots bloody."

Anya took his hand and he pulled her from the counter. Dressed to kill and armed to the teeth, they walked together into the darkness of the subway tunnel.


	5. Corrosive Material

**Chapter Four: Corrosive Material**

The eerie sound of air rushing through empty tunnels filled the grimy, white-tiled space of the subway. The unnerving pseudo-silence was broken only by the _chonk, chonk, chonk _of the pair's armour as they jogged through the abandoned subway. It was heavy going, and the soldiers' lungs were working too hard to hold any kind of conversation; they had passed the last few hours in panting silence.

Of course, Marcus was as just fit now as he was some sixteen years ago, and lugging his gear at a fast pace was no problem. However, the comm towers had not been so kind to Anya; one glance to his left, and it was clear to Marcus that the waif of a woman was struggling. The sergeant had taken the vast majority of the gear they needed—the rations, the med kits, most of the ammo, and the heaviest weapons—and Anya was still only just managing to keep up to him. She hadn't uttered a word of complaint, but he slowed down anyways.

"You...don't...have to..." Anya huffed, her face set in pained determination.

"We can't let ourselves burn out," Marcus replied, carefully using _'we'_ and _'ourselves'_ in place of _'I'_ and _'you'_. "Besides, you're starting to sweat."

The woman issued a grunt of laughter. "What? A girl can't do a little perspiring?"

"No, because you'll get dehydrated, then your muscles will start cramping up, and then you'll be in a world of pain."

"I'd forgotten how cheery you are, Sergeant," Anya panted. Marcus sneaked a quick glance at her from the corner of his eye; her face was all grimacing humour, but something in the way her shoulders were hunched made Marcus wonder if she was feeling a little embarrassed. Forgetting something as rudimentary as the _you-sweat-you-die_ rule was, admittedly, a little disconcerting.

They hustled over the newspaper-strewn floor, passing another station.

"Where did that explosion come from?" Anya asked after a while. "Back in that warehouse, I mean."

Marcus shrugged, causing his massive armour casing to clunk up and down. "Must've been some kind of gas leak. Everything's been unstable since the sinking; Corpser probably set something off."

Anya made a little _oh_ of understanding. She opened her mouth, as if she had something else to say, but then she shut it again and they continued on in silence. The lieutenant was used to maintaining a constant stream of communication with her soldiers, and Marcus knew she must have been having a hard time keeping quiet. Even over their tac-coms, when more than a hundred miles separated them, they had always managed to keep at least a small measure of casual conversation; now, they were within arms' reach of each other, and they couldn't utter a word.

They ran through a narrow connecting tunnel and past a broken turnstile; Marcus spotted a dead neon sign that declared this new platform as Fellings Station.

"Look, we've been going for hours. Let's take a couple minutes," he said, slowing himself to a walk.

The woman came to a halt at his side. She turned away to stare down the tunnels, then nodded absently. Moments later, she winced and gingerly touched the cut above her eye.

"I told you to let me give you something for that." Marcus frowned; this time, Anya offered no rebuttal. Taking that as consent, the sergeant reached into his belt pack and procured a compact metal case.

"Xanthine?" Anya guessed.

Marcus opened the case, revealing the lieutenant to be correct. Anya popped a couple of Xanthine pills and swallowed. He asked something about the pain, but Anya suddenly wasn't listening. She was staring down the tunnels again.

"What station is this?"

Marcus glanced back at the sign he had seen earlier. "Fellings. You know this place?"

The woman's brow furrowed, as if she was racing furiously through a complex map she had drawn in her mind. "Yes, we're close...I think."

Something in the way she said _I think _reminded Marcus of the days before the nightmarish battle of Aspho Fields, before Anya had toughened up—before she had witnessed the tragic death of her mother. Just like those days, she was second-guessing herself. Her eyes darted anxiously around the filthy platform, searching for a single scrap of evidence that she wasn't messing up royally; Marcus could see the trepidation in those beautiful greens.

"Anya, isn't there a map or something down here...?"

Not seeming to hear, the woman strode up a few paces, leaning forward to peer down into the pit where the subway rails slithered off into the dark tunnels.

"We could..." she murmured the words to herself, but Marcus was too keen of hearing.

"What?" He joined her at the edge of the platform.

"Well...Fellings Station connects to Antimony Station, which is just a few blocks from the city hospital," she said. "If we were feeling particularly courageous, we could follow the rails to Antimony and cut hours off the trip."

_Cut hours off the trip, get to the Stranded hospital outpost that much faster, and add potential days to a young girl's life expectancy._

Sounded like a pretty good plan.

Except for the _going-through-the-dark-nasty-narrow-subway-tunnel_ part.

The sickly halogen lights stopped just a couple feet into the tunnel, and their diseased flickering did little to penetrate the inky blackness beyond the platform. Not only would they be travelling blindly with little more than their weak flashlights to battle the gloom, they would be in very tight quarters with next to nothing for cover. If they were attacked, they'd find themselves choosing between facing the enemy head on, or fleeing further into the tunnel and running the risk of trapping themselves.

"So," he said, casually checking the magazine in his Lancer. "You tell me._ Are _we feeling particularly courageous today?"

Anya drew a deep breath and nodded. "Particularly suicidal is more like it," she said as she hopped off the platform.

Marcus jumped down after her and moved to her side. "I don't need any Baird-isms from you, Lieutenant."

That earned him a small smile from the woman.

Instinctively, he jaunted ahead of her to take point, and they passed from the halogen security of the subway's lights and into the pitch black tunnel.

—

Something metallic clanged far-off in the distance; Marcus heard Anya's armour rattle quietly as she flinched, and he resisted the urge to train the flashlight beam on her. She had to get used to the darkness—hell, she had to get used to the field in general—and he knew that he had no business being worried about anything. That was the first rule of being a leading officer: you were allowed to worry about rooks for the first couple of hours, and after that, you were only allowed to be _concerned. _You didn't coddle, you _saved_. Because everyone needed someone watching their back, but holding their hand would only get everyone killed. Marcus worked hard to remind himself of that.

"Goddammit..." Anya's curse resonated softly in the subway tunnel as she stumbled over a crooked rail. "It's so dark. I'm...I'm not used to this."

"What, the near-blindness?" Marcus, revolver in one hand, indicated the blurry yellow cone of light emitted by the flashlight in his other: the only illumination in the low-ceiling tunnel.

"Yes," Anya said after a moment. "I guess I'm too used to having a walls of computer screens showing me every angle. This...is terrifying."

"Welcome to my world, Stroud."

"Hah. Nice try, Sarge. At least you usually have me watching over you. We're completely alone here."

The weight of her words struck Marcus in a way he hadn't anticipated, and he decided to concede the point. She was right: they were pretty much alone, with their tac-coms on public silence and their friends a long way off. But however isolated they were, Marcus found that he didn't really mind the solitude.

Just beyond the rim of the flashlight beam, a large structure emerged silently from the thick darkness. Shining the light on it, Marcus saw it was a single derelict subway car, it's metal doors hanging open. Something clicked in Marcus' brain. "Got your sidearm?"

A moment of hesitance. "Yes. I do. Why wouldn't I?"

The tiny, nigh-on imperceptible note of indignation in the lieutenant's reply told Marcus that he was straying dangerously close to the edge of being a condescending asshole. _Of course she has her sidearm, dipshit. She's not some wet-behind-the-ears rook; she's been your CIC officer for more than a decade, and she's the daughter of one of the best Gears you've ever met. She's _capable_. Start treating her like it._

The scowling face of the late Major Helena Stroud flashed in Marcus' head, and he grimaced to think what the hard-ass woman would say if she saw the way he was babying her daughter.

With Marcus in the lead, the two stepped up into the car. Luckily, a moment's search proved the long, seat-filled car to be empty, and they passed through the car and back out into the tunnel.

The second Marcus hopped down onto the rails, something sounded in his highly trained ear, and his subconscious whispered _trouble._

Adhering to standard field protocol, the sergeant raised his fist, signalling Anya to halt and remain silent. He stood like that more a few moments, frozen with his clenched hand in the air like a spectator at a Thrashball match. His ears sifted through the mess of miscellaneous noise—rat squeaks, Anya's breathing, some far off air vent—and strained to hear that discordant sound that had triggered his soldier's sense.

But there was nothing but the sound of air moving. He dropped his fist, and Anya strode up to him.

"What is it?" she whispered.

Marcus shook his head. "Heard something."

Anya held her breath, evidently struggling to listen, then took a step into the darkness.

"It's the wind."

"...You gotta be kidding—"

"No." She took another step. "It's actually the wind..."

Marcus felt it then: the slight brush of air on his face, the inaudible rustle of rushing air. He realized that any air vents would have stopped working long ago. The more gingerly he listened, the more he could tell that the rushing lacked the clunking buzz of a vent generator, and had a far more organic quality to it.

Anya was walking away, her form disappearing out of the yellow glow of the light. Marcus followed, anxious both for Anya's safety and his own apparent lack of perception.

"The tunnel curves out!" Anya's voice was surprisingly far away now, and Marcus quickened his pace in the direction of her reverberating words.

"_Keep it down_. We don't know what's down here..."

But she was right. Soon, Marcus found himself following the rails on an increasing curve to the left. The wind—yes, that's definitely what it was—was picking up, and it howled softly along the tunnel walls. And was it Marcus' eyes, or was it a little less dark than before?

"Come on, Marcus!" The lieutenant's hiss was even further away; Marcus broke into a jog. There was no doubt about it: the tunnel was getting lighter. The soldier could see past the flashlight's beam, now; could make out the smudged concrete walls and the parallel lines of the rusty rails.

Were they getting close to Antimony Station then? That was the only explanation for the wind and the light. But the more Marcus thought about that, the less sense it made. _Subways are underground. Why the hell would there be wind underground?_

"Anya?"

No reply. The back of Marcus' neck prickled, and he dug his boots in harder.

"Anya!"

Turning sharply into the last bit of the curve—_odd angle for a tunnel to cut out at_—Marcus found himself staring down into a thousand foot drop.

"_Shit._"

The tunnel just _ended_. It was like someone had taken Sera's biggest chainsaw bayonet and hacked the subway in half. The walls and floor twisted into shredded steel and crumbling concrete, then simply gave way to the empty space that was the Ilima sinkhole. The rails jutted out into the golden rays of the setting sun, curling up like iron cat whiskers. The broken end of the tunnel was like a television screen; a jagged concrete square that framed the surreal view of the giant abyss that had swallowed more than half the city.

So much for Antimony Station.

Marcus glanced to his left, and saw that Anya was standing in the shade of the tunnel, one white-knuckled hand wrapped tightly around a crooked piece of re-bar. She was staring wide eyed into the smoky sinkhole.

"Shit, Anya. Are you okay? _Shit._"

But Anya wasn't looking at him. "Marcus," she whispered hoarsely. "The hospital."

After a moment's hesitance, the sergeant turned back towards the sinkhole and followed Anya's gaze. There, perched high above on the jagged edge of the crevasse, was the Ilima City Hospital.

Or rather, what was left of it. Almost half of the squat, slate grey building was gone, torn viciously from its foundations and dragged miles underground with the rest of the city. Like the tunnel, the hospital was veritable cross section, with its blackened insides exposed to the open air like an apocalyptic dollhouse. Several of the storeys had collapsed; other than the flickering of a few fires, Marcus couldn't see any traces of activity in the shattered windows. Hundreds of feet below the crumbling edge of the hospital's surviving half, an empty gurney was teetering on a rocky precipice.

Marcus didn't know what to say. As far as he could tell, the hospital—their primary lead on Jackie—was reduced to an enormous, half-ruined shack that looked like it could tumble into the sinkhole any minute. The worst part of it was the logic of it all: At one time, the hospital had reportedly been a safe haven for survivors of the initial sinking. But slowly, as the days went on, the hole had reportedly grown, steadily devouring the once-secure parts of Ilima. The hospital had obviously been one of these areas, completely stable until one day, when the edge of the sinkhole got too close. Logic—that horrible thing that nagged at Marcus and frayed his hopes—said that the survivors had been in the hospital, drawn to the promise of safety like moths to a flame, when in reality they were being led into an inevitable trap. Marcus tried not to imagine the survivors curled up in their over-sized hospital beds, blissfully unaware of the concrete that was giving way below them...

Anya was a smart girl, and her crestfallen face told Marcus that she had come to the same conclusion. She closed her eyes; her vice grip on the re-bar was weakening.

_No. _She couldn't lose hope now. Marcus wouldn't let her. There had been no irrefutable evidence that Jackie was un-findable, un-savable. There was still a chance.

"Anya." He stepped forward, rejoining her in the shadows of the tunnel. "This doesn't mean anything. She wasn't alone; she would have gotten out. Hell, maybe she was never even in there."

Anya swallowed hard, then gave Marcus an unstable nod.

"Yes. You're right. We...we'll just..."

"We'll just retrace our steps back to Fellings, and walk topside the rest of the way. Come on."

Marcus cupped the lieutenant's elbow and gave her a gentle push back into the tunnel. He had to get Anya away from the destruction; he had to get her walking. Motion was the catch-all cure for everything in the battlefield, be it shock, injury, or trauma; as soon as he got Anya up and moving, with her mind focused on the _right, left, right, left _rhythm of marching, she'd be fine.

That rhythm had saved Marcus from more than a few spirit-shattering breakdowns before.

—

They were back in the tunnel now, walking back through the gloom towards Fellings Station. Marcus had taken point, partially because it was his instinctive position in any formation, but also because he wouldn't be surprised if Anya walked right into a wall right then. He let her hold the flashlight, and took it upon himself to scan the shadows with revolver in hand. The hospital hadn't been very far from where they'd been—no more than a mile from the subway exit—and they'd probably be able to make it there before it got too dark.

Marcus immediately revised that plan. No, he wouldn't try to make the risky trip, not now. Night-time manoeuvres were dangerous at best. Maybe if he was with the rest of Delta and had Control covering his ass, he would have gone for it; but he was just one man, and his only other comrade was both physically and emotionally shaky. He wouldn't push Anya; the best thing to do now was find a secure place to hunker down and spend the night.

The tunnel seemed longer than it had when they were coming up—time flew when you had no idea what was lurking in the shadows in front of you, waiting to leap out and tear your throat out.

Of course, Marcus mused to himself, that wasn't to say that things didn't come up from behind you and tear your throat out, even if you'd just cleared the area. Hence the term _ambush_.

A sudden reverberating clatter further down in the dark tunnel sent that word flashing across Marcus' mind, and he snapped his fist up rigidly in the thick air.

He listened for a moment, then stepped slowly to the right so that his back was up against the slightly concaved wall. Anya quickly followed suit, flicking off her flashlight and rushing to cover on the opposite wall. They were plunged into shades of darkness, with their only light coming from the setting sun as its rays strained into the depths of the tunnel.

_What? _The woman mouthed to Marcus from across the tracks.

"Don't know," Marcus whispered back. "Sounded like something's coming."

Anya peered down the empty tunnel. "We've heard stuff like that before."

"This one's closer._ Way_ closer."

Then, as if backing up Marcus' claim, there was another, louder clang. Anya visibly tensed, and Marcus holstered his sidearm and pulled his Lancer from the weapon sling on his back. This time, he didn't have to look to know that Anya had already brought her Snub pistol to bear. He strained his ears for another clue to whatever was coming their way. This first clang, while closer than anything else, had still been a ways away, but the second sound had been much closer. This thing was moving fast. Way faster than any loping grub.

Another metallic clash; this one just metres away. Any moment now, and this thing—or, God forbid, _things_—would be right on top of them. Marcus aimed the muzzle of his Lancer into the darkness, one gloved finger resting lightly on the trigger.

A feral, screeching growl erupted in the tunnel, and a dog-sized blur of pallid grey flesh and black claws catapulted out of the gloom and at Anya's face.

"Wretch!" Marcus yelled. It was too close to Anya; he couldn't shoot it. Feet already moving, the soldier went to plan B and revved his chainsaw bayonet. The monstrous thing was already between him and Anya; he had to get to the Wretch before—

A single, skull-jarring shot rang out, and Marcus watched as the Wretch collapsed just short of Anya, its head cracked right down the middle like two halves of a gory melon. Anya stood with arms extended, both hands gripping her pistol, lips pursed and chest heaving.

Marcus powered down his Lancer's chainsaw.

"Damn. Nice shot. You okay?"

Wiping a spot of blood from her cheek, Anya nodded grimly. She knew as well as he did that this was likely far from over. They both turned to face back down the tunnel, but Marcus couldn't resist stealing a glance at the dead Wretch. Anya's bullet had gone right between the creature's beady black eyes; a perfect cranial vault shot.

_That_ was the sharp-shooting Stroud he needed.

The sudden silence that blanketed the darkness was deceiving. Wretches were the hounds of the Locust, the mindless scent trackers that led a grub party to its target, and Marcus found it hard to believe that the Wretch had come alone. Of course, the wailing beasts were far from stealthy, and any ambush the grubs had hoped to achieve had been summarily botched.

Marcus snorted. It would be a sad day for Gears when the Locust realized that the Wretches didn't make for stealthy scouts.

But until then, they had their warning, and the two soldiers prepared for the real fight. However, the walls provided little in the ways of protective cover, and just as Marcus had feared, they were caught out in the open with nowhere to run. The only way out was back through the tunnel and past whatever was following that Wretch.

"The car." the sergeant whispered suddenly. Anya cocked a brow at him, but Marcus was already moving down the tunnel.

"If we can make it back to that subway car we passed, then we'd have some cover."

Understanding the sense in Marcus' proposal, Anya quickly followed after him as he jogged away into the darkness. Fortunately, the car was closer than they thought, and they were able to jump up into it, secure the front and rear doors, and slip down behind the leather seats near the back.

Marcus' chainsaw motor and Anya's gunshot could have been heard for miles in the subway, and they knew it was only a matter of time until their trackers were upon them.

"We gotta finish this fast." Marcus kept his voice to a low growl. "If we're too outnumbered, you run back to the station, got it?"

Anya's furrowing brow told Marcus she had noticed his use of _'you run'_ instead of _'we run'_. She flashed Marcus a look from the corner of her eye.

"And leave you behind? If we can't finish them together, what chance do you have alone? No; if I have to run, you'd better be right behind me."

The sergeant scowled and opened his mouth to argue, but a quiet thudding in the distance shut him up. He felt the metal car around him vibrate as the thudding became heavy footsteps. He melted further back into cover. "Get ready."

Anya mirrored his movements; the footsteps approached.

They were coming.

_ Scratch that; they're here._

A flurry of bullets assaulted the front of the car, punching tiny holes in the metal. In the tunnel beyond the door, at least two grubs growled their orders to each other.

"_Humansss!_"

"_Groundwalkerssss! Attaaaack!_"

And then Marcus heard something he wished he wouldn't have to hear.

"BOOM!"

In an instant, the entire front end of the car was destroyed in an explosion of steel and dust; Marcus and Anya recoiled back from the blast. They got their guns up just in time to watch two grubs clamber up over the wreckage of seats, eyes glinting in the gloom.

One of the drones opened fire on Anya, and the other rushed at Marcus, chainsaw bayonet screaming. Instantly, Marcus slipped into survival mode; he became the predator that understood only the _kill-or-be-killed _rule. His brain slowed time down for him, let his blood flow freely through his veins, gave him time to _prioritize._

His unclouded thoughts told him that the biggest threat was the chainsaw blade rushing at his face, and, consequentially, the drone attached to it. Marcus blasted the revolting thing with a burst of Lancer fire, staggering the grub and giving the sergeant a few moments to get his own chainsaw revved up. He pressed the saw's power button, waited to hear the roar of the motor in his ear, then lunged forward. The creature straightened just in time to catch Marcus' chainsaw full in the shoulder. Blood splashed, and Marcus unleashed a cry of rage as he leaned into his enemy, driving the racing blades down across its collarbone and through the ribcage. The grub convulsed, its scaly face contorted into a hideous scream. Marcus tried to keep his own face protected as a geyser of blood, bone and meat gushed forth from the fatal wound.

The drone dropped, and Marcus let the chainsaw power out. Threat eliminated. He heard the unmistakable sound of Snub bullets connecting with scaled hide, and he knew Anya was fine. Next threat?

"BOOM!"

The stupid, eight-foot Boomer was approaching the blown-open car now. It bellowed its trademark war cry, then aimed its Boomshot at Marcus and pulled the trigger. Marcus barely managed to tumble away as the shell exploded behind him, obliterating the seats he'd used as cover.

"Anya!" Marcus cried as the lieutenant dropped her grub.

"BOOM!"

"What?" Anya vaulted herself over a pair of seats, narrowly missing the Boomshot's exploding bomblets.

Marcus unloaded a full clip into the Boomer; the gargantuan thing only lumbered forward and reloaded its grenade launcher. The sergeant had a plan, but he had to get his lieutenant out of the way first.

"Get past that Boomer! Run for it!"

"Don't be an idiot! I'm not going to abandon—"

"Did I _tell_ you to abandon me? Get your ass on the other side of this Boomer before I _boot_ it there!"

Anya shot him a look—whether of fear or rage, Marcus couldn't tell—but she steadied herself anyways and prepared to make a mad dash past the Boomer.

"Hey, Ugly! Over here!" Marcus yelled, pelting the monster with lead to draw its attention. The Boomer turned to Marcus, and Anya bolted out of the ruined car and through the opening between the Boomer and the wall. In one fluid motion, Marcus slung his Lancer, reached into his belt pack and pulled out a frag grenade of his own.

"BOOM!"

He dodged, catching only minor shrapnel from the explosion. This was perfect.

As the behemoth began to reload its Boomshot, Marcus seized the opportunity and rushed forward. He was a two-hundred-fifty pound blur of metal and adrenaline as he barrelled down on the Boomer, careening to the monster's side only at the last possible moment. As he passed the beast, he tagged its thick hide with the frag, then ran _hard_.

Of course, Anya had disobeyed orders and refused to flee further down the tunnel. She was standing a ways away, giving him a _what-the-hell? _kind of look.

"Come on!" he shouted as he grabbed her arm and pulled her away. The Boomer was trying to shamble its obese bulk after them.

"BOOM!"

Anya cringed, apparently waiting for the whistling of the Boomshot's shell, but instead, they were met with the concrete-rocking explosion of Marcus' grenade as it detonated right on top of the Boomer.

Blood splattered on the walls, and they finally came to a halt.

Panting, Anya clicked on her flashlight. Marcus returned to her side.

"What...did you do?"

"Grenade melee tactics," Marcus replied as Anya trained the beam on the unrecognizable Boomer corpse. "More commonly known as a frag tag."

"Witty." Anya turned the light back down the tunnel. It took several deep breaths to wring the last of the panic from her face. "Okay...Okay. What now?"

"We go back to Fellings. Find a place to rest for the night."

Anya frowned. "We're so close. Can't we—"

"No, Lieutenant, we can't. We gotta find a place to rest," Marcus growled. "Understand?"

The woman gave a little sigh, but nodded. It was taking a while, but she was slowly learning to trust Marcus, to have faith in his knowledge and let him make the decisions he was trained to make.

They moved out, Anya's flashlight leading the way. Marcus knew they had probably beaten the worst, but the raiding party had been unusually small, and he wouldn't be surprised if there were some more stragglers hanging around. As they marched, he glanced quickly at Anya's pistol. There were only two rounds left in its clip.

"Reload," he said.

"What?"

Marcus gestured at her near-empty gun. "Reload your Snub. We don't know what else is down here; you gotta keep your clip full."

"Oh, right." Anya passed the flashlight to Marcus and reached back into her lightweight ammo pack. Marcus watched as she procured a fresh clip and opened the cartridge on her Snub.

_One. Two._

She pulled out the old clip; dropped it to the floor.

_Three. Four._

She slid the new clip into the cartridge.

_Five. Six._

She closed the cartridge and cocked the gun.

Six seconds. That was how long she had taken to reload a pistol. Marcus clenched his jaw; most Gears averaged somewhere in the two second range. Last time he'd been evaluated, Marcus had averaged point nine-eight seconds.

"...Good. Let's...just find a place to get some shut-eye."


	6. Only The Young

**Chapter Five: Only The Young**

She slid the magazine in and out of the Snub. In the gun, out of the gun. _In the gun, out of the gun._

He had been watching her, Anya knew; had been judging her skills with her weapon. It hadn't taken very much time at all—a question of seconds—but she knew she had failed whatever scrutinizing test he had subjected her to. Of course, she had seen Gears reload their guns a thousand times over, and she knew she didn't stack up to even the slowest of rookie reloads.

_In the gun, out of the gun._

She had been sitting on the hard tiles for ages; her back was getting stiff, and her fingers were cold, but she had to keep practicing. She had let Marcus catch her unprepared once, and it wouldn't happen again.

_ In the gun, out of the gun_

The more she thought about it, the more she realized how _angry_ she was. She had a mission; depending on her actions, a young girl would live or die, and she couldn't even load a frigging pistol in less than five seconds. Why was she so incompetent?

As she reloaded her pistol for the umpteenth time, the frustrated lieutenant pushed a little too hard on the cartridge, and the gun jammed.

Anya cursed under her breath, resorting to whacking the magazine into place.

"You know, beating your weapon into submission doesn't always work."

Anya's head jerked up. Marcus' enormous figure filled up the door frame, blocking out the feeble light of the subway's bare halogen lamps. They had chosen to make camp in a small ticket booth in Fellings Station, and Marcus had been patrolling the area while Anya 'collected herself'. Not that she needed to.

The woman finally manhandled the jammed cartridge back into place. "Thanks," she said in less-than-thankful tones.

Marcus must have heard the slight harshness in her reply—he always did have superhuman hearing capabilities—but he offered no rebuttal. He just dropped his Lancer to his side and stepped into the tiny, narrow room. Laying his Lancer to rest on the floor beside him, the sergeant stretched out his legs and let his head lull back.

Anya stared at Marcus, taking in how strange he looked in such a vulnerable position. His thick, sinewy neck was completely exposed, and his eyes were closed. The muscles of his face were in a rare state of relaxation; Anya couldn't believe how much _younger_ he looked when his face wasn't screwed up in a permanent scowl. It was as though all the premature lines and wrinkles had melted away, leaving a scarred, yet human, face behind.

"How's your head?" He spoke without opening his eyes.

Anya's hand subconsciously flew to the lightly bandaged wound on her temple. "Healing, so good, I suppose."

He gave a slight nod. Then, his lids rose to reveal his husky-like eyes, and he exhaled slowly.

"So. Tell me about Jackie."

His request caught Anya off-guard, and she blinked. Either the sergeant was employing another of his _calm-down-the-emotionally-distraught-lieutenant _tactics, or he was genuinely interested in the topic of Anya's missing goddaughter. Knowing Marcus, Anya guessed it was an even mix of the two.

"Well...her hair is long, brown...and she has heterochromia."

Marcus raised a brow. "Two different coloured eyes."

"One blue, one green," Anya said, nodding. "She...she always said she wanted to join the military when she grew up, because she hated all the paper work her mom did as a social worker. Said she wanted to be like me."

Anya swallowed, suddenly aware of feeling rather silly. Marcus probably wanted to know about the important information, not the stupid details.

"Um...I was good friends with her mother, but her father...to say that he was never in the picture would be putting it nicely. It was never official, but I stepped in to help out where I could, and somewhere along the line, I just kind of...became family, you know? Eventually, it just got easier to call me her godmother. Or Auntie Anya, as she liked to say..."

The woman searched her fellow soldier's face—if anyone knew about falling in with a family, it was Marcus. But the sergeant didn't say anything; he just nodded and let Anya say what she wanted. In fact, Anya was more than a little surprised at how good it felt to just _talk _about Jackie.

"I haven't seen her since before Operation Hollow Storm. I got put on twenty-four hour com duty, and there just wasn't any time to go back and see her." Lines of realization creased her brow. "Shit, Marcus, she had her _birthday_. She turned eleven, and I wasn't even there."

Marcus gazed off into space. "You can't blame yourself, Anya."

Deep down, Anya knew he was right, but that didn't do anything to loosen the sudden knot in her stomach.

Marcus' jaw muscle twitched as if he wanted to say more, but Anya knew he wouldn't—knew he _couldn't_. Like so many members of the COG, Anya had to balance family and soldier life, but Marcus didn't have the luxury to carry such a burden. Starting out with precious little family to begin with, Marcus' circle of close relationships had dwindled over the years until he had virtually no one left. As a teen, he'd lost his mother, then as he grew, his father became more and more distant. After E-Day, he suffered a rapid succession of loss: Carlos, the eldest of his two brother-like friends; his niece and nephew, both Dom's children; and finally, his own father.

No, Marcus had no advice to give when it came to family life, and he was all too aware of it.

As if sensing the uncomfortable shift in unspoken conversation, the sergeant suddenly rose from the floor and motioned over to the pile of supply packs on the floor.

"You eaten yet?"

"No."

Anya felt the sergeant's piercing blue glare on her, but she refused to meet it and busied herself with her pistol.

"You need to keep your calorie intake up."

"I'm fine, Marcus. You don't have to—"

A silver-wrapped rations bar fell into her lap.

"Eat. Now."

Anya looked up. Marcus had his _I'm-your-sergeant _voice on, and his expression told Anya in no uncertain terms that, if she didn't listen to her sergeant, he'd force that ration bar right down her insubordinate throat. Hesitating only for a moment, she sighed and began to peel off the bar's packaging.

Evidently satisfied, Marcus turned and stared out at the empty platform beyond the door-less exit of the room.

"You should get some sleep," he said without looking away. "I'll take first watch."

Anya gulped down a mouthful of tasteless protein. A small part of her wanted to protest, but the more intelligent part of her told that small part—in a voice not unlike her mother's—to sit down and shut up. Marcus was the squad leader; he knew what would work, and what would get them turned into Wretch kibble. It had taken Anya a while, but after watching Marcus fight in the tunnel, she had learned to turn off the commanding, know-it-all voice of the CIC officer, and listen to both her and Marcus' field sense.

Marcus would take first watch tonight, and she would do her best to get the sleep that he needed her to have.

She finished the last of the ration bar and stuffed the sticky wrapper back into the ration pack. "Alright. You'll be okay?"

Marcus nodded, eyes still scanning the station. "That's what the Xanthine is for, right? I'll be good for a while. Now try and get some rest."

Anya watched as the sergeant ambled out into the subway, then she shuffled around on the grimy floor in an attempt to find an acceptable sleeping position. Her unyielding armour made comfort impossible, but she finally managed to prop herself up in a corner of the booth with a supplies pack wedged under her head as a makeshift pillow.

From her place on the floor, she stared out through the door frame. Marcus' shadow, made giant by the flickering lights, fell over the station as he wandered aimlessly about. For perhaps the hundredth time since the beginning of their journey, Anya privately thanked the heavens that the burly sergeant had demanded to accompany her. It had been just over a day since they'd left, and already he'd saved this mission—and her own skin— more times than she cared to count.

What had she been thinking, trying to make this trip on her own? Though she knew he didn't mean to, Marcus had proved her to be incapable time and time again, and each time, she became more and more acutely aware of her own inabilities. The truth stung like a Wretch bite: without Marcus' aid, Anya would have failed her mission, and all hope for Jackie would have been utterly snuffed.

But he was here, and they were finding Jackie, and that was all that really mattered.

The gentle clunking of Marcus' armour was suddenly making Anya drowsy. Just before she fell asleep, the woman made sure she had her pistol—fully loaded—tucked neatly into her fist. She'd be damned if she was going to let Marcus down again.

—

The sound of gunfire reverberated in Anya's brain.

Like a drowning castaway being pulled out of the ocean, Anya was yanked from the depths of slumber and thrust, bleary-eyed, into the cold, hard reality of the subway.

"Shit, shit, _shit._"

Marcus was ducking into the scant cover of the ticket booth's door frame, blind-firing his Lancer into the station as he went. Somewhere outside the booth, something let forth a garbled roar.

"Anya, get up! We've got company!"

The lieutenant scrambled to her feet. "What...what's going on?"

Both soldiers jerked back against the wall as a burst of fire—Mulcher rounds, Anya realized—tore up the tiles along the door jambs.

"Grinder?" Anya screamed over the metallic cacophony of ricocheting bullets.

"Grinders, actually," the sergeant growled back. "Plural."

Sneaking a peek out into the station, Anya caught a glimpse of the hideous Grinders—three, not one—that were turning Fellings Station into a junkyard of smoking metal and powdered tile. Anya gaped. She wasn't sure which was more disconcerting: the machine gun-toting monsters lumbering around in the subway beyond, or her fellow Gear's relatively calm air.

Yet, she knew him better than that. His face was a mask of grim determination, but she could tell, from the twitching muscles in his broad neck to the way his eyes were darting around, that this situation was a bit more _fubar_ than his casual manner would convey.

Anya slid into place beside Marcus, Snub pistol held at the ready. "If you don't mind me asking, how the _fuck_ did we get sneaked up on by a trifecta of _Grinders_?"

Marcus cast her a sideways glance, as if questioning her sudden development of a sailor's vocabulary. "Sorry, but I don't list 'launching an outnumbered ambush on an unaware Grinder pack' as an intelligent course of action," he shot back. "I figured I'd try to just let them pass."

Anya huffed. "Alright, so what's the plan now, Sarge?"

"Huh. And I was hoping you'd tell me."

Dismissing the mild wave of fear rising in her chest, Anya steadied herself and did the only thing she could think of. Pistol out before her, the woman whirled out of cover and added her own bullets to the fray.

Anya dodged a responding flurry of Mulcher fire and fell back into cover. Then, the floor of the station shook as a Grinder took a heavy step forward.

"Shit, they're advancing," Marcus snarled. "We got problems."

In a tumult of hands and clips, the sergeant reloaded his Lancer and continued blind-firing. Anya followed suit, managing to reload her handgun in less than a few seconds, and joined Marcus in the counter-attack. Sure enough, the Grinders were slowly moving in on them, trapping them in the ticket booth. They were seemingly impervious to the Gears' fire.

"We gotta get outta here!" Marcus had to bellow to be heard above the onslaught.

"How?" Anya unloaded another ineffective clip in the direction of the closest Grinder. The thunderous footsteps of the approaching beasts were getting louder; they didn't have much time. If they were going to make a break for it, it had to be now.

Marcus edged out to the door frame. "Alright, on my mark, we duck out and regroup by the turnstile."

Anya gave a quick nod and sidled up behind Marcus. She knew he had to time their escape to the intermittent pauses between Mulcher fire; anything less than perfect timing, and they'd be shot to pieces faster than they could find a suitable expletive for the situation.

"Three..." Marcus said from the corner of the mouth. The Grinders moved forward a couple steps.

"Two..."

Anya peeked over Marcus' shoulder just in time to watch the furthest Grinder explode in a fountain of blood and guts.

"What the ..?"

"Marcus..." Anya whispered as the surviving Grinders halted their attack to stare stupidly at what was left of their unfortunate comrade. "We didn't do that, did we?"

The sergeant opened his mouth to reply, but the whistling trajectory of a Boomshot shell filled the station, and a second Grinder was obliterated. The last monster began to fire its Mulcher at an unseen target beyond the station turnstile.

"COG?" Anya asked, but Marcus shook his head.

"No. Boomshot's a Locust weapon."

The mysterious Boomshot wielder fired a final shell, cleanly taking off the lone Grinder's ugly head in a bloody blast.

The headless beast dropped its machine gun and slowly sank to the floor. The immediate silence that engulfed the station was deafening. Marcus signalled to move out; the soldiers kept their weapons at the ready. They slunk out onto the gore-slicked platform, but the sound of a nearby conversation stopped them in their tracks.

"Well, that was rather painless, wasn't it?"

"For us, maybe, but not those Locust bastards. Look; Tasha took that one's head clean off."

The two voices, both male, broke up into sniggers, but were cut short by the scathing hiss of a woman.

"Shut up, both of you. Those things were after something down here. Stay alert."

The tension in Anya's shoulders eased slightly; at least they were dealing with human beings, not a band of kamikaze Boomers. However, the tension quickly returned as shadows flickered on the opposite wall: the still-unseen group was approaching the station from around the corner. Marcus hefted his Lancer and stepped in front of Anya; an instant later, two men and a woman crept into the station.

Marcus had been right: they certainly weren't Gears. Their thin bodies were armourless, with only grubby, threadbare clothing to protect them. Their faces were smudged with dirt and sweat, and they carried worn backpacks on their sagging shoulders. The two men—one young, one old—stood at the ready behind the woman, who Anya assumed was their leader. She had a half-surprised, half-infuriated look on her face as her gaze fell upon Anya and Marcus.

"You! Drop your weapons!" Her voice echoed sharply in the hollow space. Anya saw she was brandishing a fully loaded Boomshot.

"Stranded." Marcus growled under his breath to Anya, then took a step towards the people. "We're not dropping shit. The assist was appreciated, but we happen to be going somewhere, and you," he looked over the woman. "Happen to be in the way."

The woman curled back her lip. She was thin, almost gaunt, but Anya could see she was well-muscled. Her fiery red hair, tied back into a loose bandana, seemed to match her less-than-friendly disposition.

"Back off, asshole," she spat. "You're not going anywhere. Now drop your friggin' weapons!"

Obviously with no intentions of doing anything of the sort, Marcus drew himself up to his full height of six foot one—a seriously intimidating thing when he was in full armour—and glared down at the woman. She was a full head shorter than him, but she met his gaze with unwavering ferocity; the men pulled their handguns from their belts.

Anya didn't understand. It was common knowledge that Gears and the begrudging Stranded didn't get along, and if a Stranded was brave enough to steal something from a soldier, they would even get into minor scraps. The Stranded had always been the filthy, uncouth, self-made outcasts of society, and they were undoubtedly a regular nuisance to the COG, but Anya had never seen one of them confront a Gear so violently.

"I'm only gonna say this once," Marcus' gruff voice was dangerously low. "You're in our way, nowkindly_ step aside_."

The woman looked like she was going to claw Marcus' face off, and the sergeant's finger was just a little too close to the power switch on his chainsaw bayonet; Anya realized that she had to do something before bullets started flying. She stepped hastily in front of Marcus, effectively breaking the stand-off between him and the Stranded woman.

"Excuse me, Sergeant," Anya hissed into the sergeant's ear as she pushed him back. "But you are _not_ the diplomat here."

The soldier stiffened and shot her a glare, but eventually backed away, allowing her to face the irate woman head on.

"And just who the hell are you?" The woman narrowed her eyes.

Anya straightened her posture and lifted her chin. "My name's Anya," she replied evenly, carefully leaving out her military rank. "I assume you're Tasha?"

The woman didn't seem particularly enchanted by Anya's manners. "Yeah, that's me." Tasha jerked her head in Marcus' direction. "Call off your bruiser."

"Not until you call off yours," Anya said, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring pointedly at Tasha's henchmen. "If you don't mind, I'd like to talk to you. I think we can be...mutually beneficial to each other."

Anya heard Marcus' barely-audible snort, but Tasha seemed to actually be listening to her. After a tense moment, she raised a hand to her men, and they hastily lowered their weapons, evidently relieved at having avoided an open fight with Marcus.

But Tasha wasn't ready for a peace treaty yet. "Mutually beneficial?" she prompted quietly, her eyes still full of distrust.

Anya nodded. "If I'm not mistaken, you want us for our weapons. Or maybe our skills." The shadow of interest that flitted across Tasha's face told Anya she was on the right track. She took a deep breath; now was the time to test out the theory she had been rapidly building from the information Hoffman had given her way back in that debriefing tent.

"In fact, if I had to hazard a guess, I would say that you Stranded have an outpost that you're trying to fortify, and you're hoping that shaking us down for supplies or forcing us to come with you will provide you with the aid you need."

The Stranded woman blinked, and Anya was glad she listened in on Hoffman's Stranded reports.

"So," Tasha recuperated quickly and was instantly back on the defensive. "What are you saying?"

Anya set her jaw. "I'm saying that if you want to take us back to your outpost, we'll go willingly."

Marcus didn't bristle nearly as much as Anya thought he would, but she knew he would be blinking furiously, just like he always did when he was surprised.

Tasha also seemed to be set back on her heels. She finally dropped her Boomshot to her side and stared, puzzled, at Anya. Behind her, the men exchanged confused whispers.

"Why? Why would you agree to that?" Tasha's suspicion was sparked. "What could you possibly gain from going without a fight?"

In an act of dignified professionalism, Anya clasped her hands behind her back and met Tasha's uncertain scowl.

"We're looking for someone, actually, and we have reason to believe they've sought refuge in your Stranded outpost."

Tasha narrowed her dark eyes. "And how do we know this isn't some kind of trap?"

"Allow me to clarify your options here," Anya said matter-of-factly. "Either you permit us to accompany you back to your outpost, or we fight our way there."

Tasha's expression said that she didn't like her odds with the latter option.

"I'll talk to the boys." She gave Anya a parting glower before turning back to have a private meeting with her lackeys. Trying not to get too hopeful, Anya spun around to face Marcus.

"Clever," was the surly sergeant's only response. As always, his stony face was unreadable, and Anya couldn't tell if he was genuinely impressed with her cunning—albeit impromptu—plan, or if he was just pissed that he'd have to follow a pack of stinking Stranded around the city.

"Well, they're not going to fight us, so they only have one choice." Anya mulled over the situation. "They'll take us back to wherever their outpost is, and we'll starting looking for Jackie..."

"Just like that?" Marcus asked quietly.

Anya looked up at him. Of course, he only ever brought things up when he thought they were pertinent, and he wouldn't say a word if he didn't think it mattered. He was just trying to keep things realistic; to ensure that everything had a plausible, tangible plan that could be understood and carried out. At the very least, Anya had to appreciate his candour.

"It'll be difficult to get them to trust us, but it's not like we're asking to inspect their secret weapon caches or anything. All we want is a girl named Jacqueline."

It was flimsy, but it was the truth. Besides, Anya knew, from Dom's search for his estranged wife, that the resourceful Stranded had a penchant for finding missing persons.

Marcus nodded, apparently conceding the point, then his features hardened as Tasha returned from her men.

"So, have the illustrious members of the court reached a decision?" he scoffed.

The Stranded leader shot a venomous glare at Marcus, but turned to Anya and nodded grudgingly.

"We'll let you come along," Tasha said, earning a small smile from Anya. "_But_, we don't want any funny business from you two. So..."

At this, Tasha's men stepped up to flank Anya and Marcus. Anya saw the glint of rusted metal in their hands.

"You're going to be handcuffed." There was the barest hint of a smirk in the woman's voice. "Just to be sure."

Marcus gave an incredulous snort as the men revealed the pair of dilapidated handcuffs, likely stolen from some abandoned police station. Sometimes, Anya hated how resourceful the Stranded were.

"Is that really necessary?" Anya asked carefully. She knew that she was pushing it by asking Marcus to cooperate with these vagabonds, and she didn't want to force him to become a helpless prisoner on her behalf.

Tasha laughed. "Oh yes, I believe it is. This way, we know you and your bruiser won't be having any designs on chainsawing our asses while we take you back to the hospital."

Anya's eyes snapped open. "Hospital?"

"Yeah, the hospital." Tasha replied. "You said you wanted to go back to our outpost, didn't you?"

"But...the hospital...it was destroyed."

Tasha's thin lips curved into a fox-like grin. "Only most of it."

Anya glanced at Marcus from the corner of her eye, and the look on his face mirrored the feeling in her heart: there was hope.

Bandana raised, Tasha approached the Gears. "Now, let's get you two all nice and tied up."

* * *

"Get a move on; we don't have all day." Tasha's trademark hiss cut through the quiet as the party of Stranded and their COG prisoners skulked through the city. It was still night; the air, while thick with smoke and ashes, was a refreshing change from the stagnant confines of the subway tunnels. Anya felt like she could finally _breathe_, and even though the sky hung low with dark clouds and smoke plumes, it was good to be outside again.

Other than Tasha's scathing orders and the occasional complaint from her fellow Stranded, they had made much of the topside journey in silence. Marcus and Anya trudged along, their hands pulled behind their backs and handcuffed together. Marcus seemed immensely unimpressed by the whole situation, and as they hustled after the creeping Stranded, Anya sent him what had to have been the hundredth look of apology since they'd emerged from the subway.

They'd followed the Stranded up though a concealed passage that only they used and back into the torn streets of Ilima. Since then, it had been all dodging through empty alleyways and staying in the shadows of fallen buildings. Somehow, Anya got the distinct feeling that while the Stranded were relatively well armed, they were doing everything they could to avoid detection and, by connection, fighting. That meant they were wary; maybe even scared.

The younger of the two Stranded men—no older than Anya when she first enlisted—slowed down a bit.

"C'mon, Tash," he huffed. "We've been on the move for hours. Can't we stop? Just for a little while?"

Tasha, who was taking point, only glowered at the kid over her shoulder and kept slogging on.

"Jasper's got a point, Tasha," chimed in the middle-aged Stranded man. "Would it be so bad if we just took a break?"

Apparently, Tasha listened to the older man more than she did Jasper, because she gave an exasperated sigh, slowed down, and motioned for the group to halt.

"Alright, alright. Gerrey, you watch the soldiers while baby Jasp here catches his breath."

They had stopped in an alley junction, where three newspaper-strewn lanes converged into one crooked T. The narrow space was cramped with scalded dumpsters and trashcans; the tall buildings that surrounded them stared down with empty, glass-pane eyes. The air was blanketed with the ashy roar of the far-off fires, leaving a strange sort of eerie silence that left everyone on edge.

As instructed, Gerrey stood watchfully by Anya and Marcus, and Jasper leaned up against one of the building's window.

"We got anything to eat, Tash?"

At this, the Stranded leader smiled. "You know, I don't, but let's see what our troops over here brought with them..."

She then reached back into the heavy supply packs—packs that had once belonged to Anya and Marcus—and began to root around for their rations. Once she'd had the Gears properly tied up, Tasha had immediately gone for their near-forgotten supply packs. Marcus had fought her for those, but he was in no position for negotiations—physical and otherwise—and he ran the risk of breaking the tenuous deal they had struck with the slippery Stranded. Once again, Anya had appreciated his silent endurance of the endless torment at Tasha's hands.

"Well, well, Jasp. You're in luck." Tasha took out a fistful of glinting ration bars and doled them out to her men. Taking a monstrous bite out of a bar, she smiled devilishly at Marcus.

"Hey, fascist asshole! Wanna know what I think of your soldiers' increased calorie intake?"

In a vulgar gesture of rebellion, the bitter Stranded woman bent over and spat a mouthful of half-chewed ration bar on the pavement.

Anya couldn't blame Marcus for the low growl that rumbled in his throat.

"Hey! I'm watching you, buddy." Gerrey tapped his holstered pistol.

Marcus' strong arms were pulled behind his back and bound by Gerrey's handcuffs, but that didn't mean he looked any less dangerous. Gerrey, as well as the other Stranded, was slowly realizing what Anya had known for ages: tied up or not, Marcus Fenix looked like a mean son of a bitch.

Anya sighed. She wanted to say something; to make casual conversation about how many heads Marcus had smashed in, or exchange favourite methods of Locust disembowelment; anything to get these people to smarten up and have a little respect for the two Gears.

_No, not respect_, Anya corrected herself. _Fear._

Because right now, they were getting walked all over, and while the lieutenant was willing to go through anything to find Jackie, she needed to have more control over the situation. But she couldn't. Just like her sergeant, she was sporting an uncomfortably tight pair of handcuffs.

Anya glanced sideways to her fellow soldier. If she was having a hard time with the current circumstances, then she couldn't even begin to imagine how Marcus was feeling. She gazed at his restrained hands, and instantly her mind flew back to the time Marcus had spent in prison. For four years, he had been confined with the rapists, murderers, and con-men, trapped in a ten by ten cell with no visiting hours, no parole, and no hope.

But she was unable to offer any words of comfort. Dejected, she just hung her head and waited for the Stranded to finish gorging themselves on their ill-gotten rations.

The woman felt a slight nudge on her shoulder. She turned about and saw that Marcus was staring at her. Having caught her eye, the sergeant flicked his eyes up towards one of the nearby buildings. Anya followed his gaze, but couldn't see anything; she shrugged helplessly. As if trying to clarify, Marcus glanced down to the pistol on Anya's hip, then stared intensely back at her.

Was he trying to convince her to fight back against the Stranded? No; why would he have made her look up at the building, then? Besides, they were both restrained; how were they supposed to mount any kind of mutiny when—

There was a flash of movement behind one of the smeared glass windows, and Anya instantly understood.

Marcus took a step forward, effectively placing himself between Gerrey and Anya, with his back against her shoulder.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Gerrey took an equal step back. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Stretching my legs. Want to fight about it?"

Marcus shifted ever so slightly, and Anya suddenly felt a pair of cuffed hands clasp firmly around the handle of her holstered Snub pistol.

_Well played, Marcus._

Holding up her end of the unspoken bargain, the lieutenant kept her eyes to the windows of the buildings above and kept watch. The grey light of the soon-to-be-rising sun glinted on the cracked glass, but there was no trace of further movement. Their vagabond captors were eating the last of the bars, and didn't seem to be aware of anything.

"Did I do a good job, Tasha?" Jasper said through a face full of ration bar. "Back in the tunnels, I mean."

The Stranded leader nodded curtly, and Gerrey grinned.

"You bet, kiddo. You were great."

In a bizarrely un-Stranded-like moment, Jasper's face lit up with an ear-to-ear smile. Anya wasn't sure what to think of it; but the moment quickly passed as Tasha hoisted the ransacked supply packs and motioned to her Stranded.

"Alright, boys, wrap it up. We're close to the outpost, so let's get Blondie and Bruiser up and running."

Jasper rose to his feet, laughing. "Blondie and Bruiser. Sounds like one of the old cartoons they used to show on—"

The pre-dawn quiet was shattered by an ear-splitting screech and the crash of a breaking window pane. Jasper was plowed face-first into the ground, a Wretch slashing rabidly at his exposed back.

Of all the people in that alleyway, Marcus was the first to react. While Tasha and Gerrey were jumping back, the sergeant yanked Anya's pistol from her holster and thrust it into her waiting hand. Of course, they had expected the attack, but it still took Anya a moment to understand the sudden feel of the gun in her hand and comprehend what she had to do. Jasper was screaming and flailing wildly. His terrified, high-pitched wail sounded more like a child's than a man's. His back was torn and fast becoming red.

"D-do something!" Gerrey stammered, his blood-shot eyes wide.

"I can't!" Tasha shrieked back. "The Boomshot will kill them both!"

The thick plating of Marcus' first grade armour had made it impossible for him to manoeuvre his handcuffed arms enough to aim a gun. But Anya was wearing third grade; her minimal armour was flexible enough to allow her to twist her arms so that she held the gun to her side. There was just enough room for her to aim the fully loaded Snub at the vicious Wretch on top of Jasper.

The single shot echoed in the narrow junction, and the unbearable screeching stopped dead.

"Jasper!" Gerrey ran forward and dropped to his knees beside the mauled youth. Marcus returned to Anya's side, and they watched as Gerrey pushed the Wretch carcass off his fellow Stranded. His weathered face frozen in wordless horror, the man slowly reached down and touched the gored pulp that was once Jasper's back.

"Jasp..."

Gerrey bowed low over the adolescent's body, his wrinkled hands grasping mindlessly at the blood-soaked clothing. He made a pitiful gurgling noise—the sound of a breaking man—and Anya turned away. Beneath her feet, thin rivers of blood trickled through the cracks in the pavement.

Tasha had one hand on Gerrey's shoulder; she was murmuring something to him. He didn't seem to hear her. He was whispering something to Jasper's lifeless body, but Anya couldn't make it out. Tasha left the man to his own and strode over to the Gears. Anya could see that the woman's hard scowl was replaced with an almost-mournful grimace.

"Look, I hate you, but I need you right now."

Marcus worked his jaw back and forth; Anya was shocked he was even considering lending assistance to his slave driver. "The Wretch was a scout." the sergeant said at length. "I understand you took a loss, but if we stay here, we'll find out just what that Wretch was sent by."

Tasha glanced back over her shoulder to the shaking man. He was still whimpering softly. She shook her head. "I know. Just...give him some time, okay?"

Marcus gave a reluctant nod, but Anya wasn't paying attention to their conversation. She inched towards Gerrey as he murmured to himself. It was breaking her heart. But then, as she neared him, it dawned on her what he was saying.

"My boy...my boy..."

It was like the bottom of Anya's stomach had fallen out. _His boy. His son._ Jasper was his fucking _son_. And now he was only dead. No more proudly beaming face. No more tender father-son bonding moments. Now there was just blood and shredded muscle and gouged bone.

Another, far-off shriek reverberated through the empty alleys. They didn't have much time before the rest of the Locust followed their wayward Wretch; Anya turned back to Marcus and Tasha. The Stranded leader held a rusted key in her hands.

"I guess I don't have the luxury of keeping prisoners now." She grabbed Anya's bound hands and unlocked the handcuffs. "Get ready to fight."

There was a quiet _click_ as Tasha released Marcus from his bonds. Then, the screeching closed in on their position, and Anya whirled around just in time to see half a dozen drones pour into the junction.

She brought her pistol to bear and blasted the closest enemy with a couple rounds. She heard the thunder of Marcus' Lancer, and one of the drones dropped. Somewhere, Gerrey was still crying.

Then, the cry of "_Boomer!_" filled Anya's head, and through her adrenaline-drunk vision, she saw the flashing red lights of an enemy Boomshot barrel.

"_Anya!_"

"BOOOOM!"

The air around Anya rushed, and the alleyway spun wildly about as she was tackled. The wind was blasted from her lungs, and, falling, she watched with dazed eyes as a grenade shell sailed over her. Then she was smashed into the ground by an immense weight; her head cracked on something hard, and the sound of the raging battle was instantly silenced.


	7. Bitter Pills

**Chapter Six: Bitter Pills**

The sun had crested the jagged horizon, and its brilliant rays cut through the dust and smoke that smothered the city, turning everything into molten gold. It was breathtaking, but the light of dawn offered no warmth; every day was getting colder as autumn slowly passed into winter. The first snows would fall soon.

Marcus pulled away from the narrow window and rubbed his mouth. He had been up for more than twenty-four hours; the Xanthine was wearing off fast. The damn Stranded still had the supply packs, and he hadn't kept any of the stims with him.

_Ah, well_. So he'd have to stay up another couple of hours. He'd deal.

The sergeant turned his gaze to the stripped cot that took up nearly half of the tiny room. Anya was sleeping there, curled up like a child. Her armour lay stacked in a metallic heap on the tiled floor, and she was left in her black under-armour bodysuit. A strip of cold morning light fell over her face; she was shivering slightly.

She was not beautiful now. Her delicate features were streaked with dirt and ashes; her bottom lip was horribly swollen. Her long blonde hair—usually tamed into a tight bun—was messy and matted with blood. The old wound on her temple had re-opened, and while Marcus had been able to stop the bleeding, the lieutenant now sported a thin, grisly scab. Marcus hoped the scar would be small.

The woman stirred. Marcus leaned against the metal door—locked, the sergeant knew—and crossed his arms.

"Morning."

Anya's eyes fluttered open to blink blearily in the sunlight. She curled into an even tighter ball, and a tiny groan escaped her dry lips.

"I'm alive?"

"Looks that way."

"Shit." Her eyes unfocussed and she stared into space. "The Boomer?"

"Nothing that crazy bitch's Boomshot couldn't handle." He gestured to her quavering frame. "How are you holding up?"

"Eh, I've been through worse."

The cot creaked morosely as Anya stretched her limbs out. She moved with a halting tenderness that betrayed her real pain. Gingerly, she propped herself on one elbow.

"You _flattened_ me."

Marcus jerked one shoulder in a half-shrug. "It was either that, or let you take a Boomshot shell in the face. In the end, I figured you'd rather deal with a few bruised ribs."

Anya's fat lip curved into an honest smile. "Well, thanks. Looks like I owe you one. Again." She pulled herself up on the cot and surveyed the cell-like room. "Where are we?"

"Generally? The hospital. And specifically..." The sergeant sniffed the air. "Judging from the iodine smell, I'd say we're in some kind of old medical supply room."

Anya sat up straighter, grimacing at the resulting pain. "We're already here?"

"Yeah. After we finished off that drone party, we hauled ass back to the hospital. Or, what's left of it."

"Did you see...?"

Marcus shook his head. "Tasha just threw us in here and told me to wait. I didn't see anyone else." He continued past Anya's crestfallen look. "That was over an hour ago."

Anya nodded in somber acceptance. "Our weapons?"

"They took 'em before they locked us up in here."

"And you just...gave them up?"

The sergeant just glanced sidelong at Anya.

Anya's brows rose. "That's...um...not like you."

He'd guessed that the lieutenant would say that. Of course, Marcus did it because he knew they were close to finding the kid, and he wasn't going to do anything to mess that up now. He debated pointing this out to Anya, but opted to just shrug casually again. Just like she always did, Anya accepted that as his final response and dropped the subject.

His keen ears pricked; somewhere beyond the heavy door behind him, the rhythmic sound of footsteps steadily approached. Anya must have heard it too, because she was pulling herself back up off the cot. The footsteps suddenly stopped outside the door, and an instant later, there was the loud click of a key in a lock.

Unfortunately for the person trying to get in, but due to Marcus' leaning weight, they were unable to open it.

"Hey, open up!" ordered a disembodied voice. Marcus looked to Anya; she was grinning. The feminine voice was familiar. In no hurry to comply, the sergeant uncrossed his arms and lifted himself from the door.

The door flew open, and Tasha stumbled haphazardly in. She immediately straightened and cleared her throat.

"Come with me. No questions."

Just like before, the woman spoke like a hard-ass general, but the scraggly Stranded simply lacked the conviction to make her order effective. She was still trying to maintain fierce control over her prisoners, but Marcus could see she was getting tired.

"Alright, give us a moment." He turned to Anya. "Can you walk?"

She waved off her sergeant's concerns. "Yes, I'm fine." She swung her feet over the side of the cot and proceeded to don her armour. Once she was back in her gear, they followed their escort out of the closet-like room.

They found themselves at the end of a long hallway. The once-sparklingly clean tiles that lined the floor were cracked and smudged with filth. Several other doors lined the peeling walls, each lit overhead by a single light. According to Marcus'—relatively limited—knowledge of hospital layouts, he guessed they were in the supply wing.

"Follow me." Tasha started down the hall, and the soldiers strode after. They passed door after door, hall after hall, marching through the symmetrical wings. Marcus tried to keep a vague map of the hospital's endless corridors in his mind, but after the first five minutes of seemingly random turns, it all became a muddled blur. Finally, just when he began to wonder if they were getting a tour of the entire hospital, they came to a set of wide double doors, and Tasha signalled for them to stop.

"Okay, kids. This is the outpost. Mind your manners, and try not to stare."

Marcus and Anya exchanged glances; Tasha pushed open the doors.

They stepped past the threshold and into the cavernous room beyond. Golden morning light filtered in through the tall, grimy windows that lined the east wall, giving the white plaster interior of the wide hall a rusted look. Inside, dozens of underfed Stranded sat on splintered benches, lay sleeping on the floor, or stood around talking to each other in hushed tones. As Tasha led Marcus and Anya through the haphazard smatterings of people, they each turned their dirty faces to stare accusingly at them as they passed. Marcus surveyed the motley assortment of people; there were men, women, and children; young and old. Too often, Gears and regular civilians forgot that the Stranded were more than bad-tempered thieves; somewhere in that hall, an infant keened for its mother.

They walked past the Stranded and followed Tasha as she came to a stop before a small group of quietly conversing men. Unlike the Stranded, these men appeared to be healthy, with their toned muscles filling out their relatively clean clothing. One of them—a tall, copper-haired man who seemed to be leading the conversation—even had a shiny COG sniper rifle strapped to his broad back. When Tasha approached, the group halted their discussion, and the man raised a brow at the woman and her prisoners.

"Our guests, Tasha?"

Tasha nodded, nose crinkled slightly as if she disagreed with the term. "Yeah, these are the ones. The blonde one said—"

The man raised his hand, and Marcus watched in mild surprise as Tasha fell instantly silent. That confirmed it: if this man could shut that woman up with less than a gesture, then he had to be some sort of Stranded big shot. Maybe even their leader.

"Thanks, Tasha. Gerrey has brought me up to speed on why they are here."

Marcus felt Anya flinch at the mention of the destroyed father; Tasha frowned in a rare show of human emotion.

Suddenly, Anya stepped forward. "Gerrey...how is he?"

The man cast a questioning glance at the blonde woman. Tasha snapped around to face Anya, but the man stepped in.

"He's exactly how a father who just lost his son would be; ruined," he replied evenly, his quiet eyes meeting Anya's directly. "But that's not what needs to be discussed right now. Tash?"

The Stranded woman understood her cue, and gave a curt nod of farewell before spinning around and trotting off into the crowd of people. The man gave a similar look of dismissal to his other comrades. Once they had left the man alone with Marcus and Anya, he smiled and, in an utterly unexpected gesture that caught Marcus by surprise, extended his hand in greeting.

"I'm Randall."

The sergeant hesitated for only a moment before he gathered himself and shook the man's hand. He had a firm grip, despite his lankier stature. Randall's grin widened at the reciprocated civility, and he stepped back. Marcus felt Randall's eyes on him; he knew he was being analyzed, sized-up. The Gear shifted his weight, returning the scrutinizing look.

"You're Marcus Fenix." Randall's smile ebbed slightly, but never faded completely.

Again, Marcus had to hesitate. Normally, Stranded didn't bother themselves to know any of the prominent Gears by name, and if they did, then they usually greeted them with a string of colourful curses and threats. Not only did Randall know him by name and appearance, but he seemed almost humbled by the meeting.

"Yeah," Marcus said shortly. He didn't care how well-mannered this guy was, the sergeant wasn't giving him an inch of leeway.

"You look just like you do in the papers." Randall crossed his arms casually. "I thought you just put on that hard-ass face for the press, but that's your legitimate default expression, isn't it?"

Randall's decidedly un-Stranded-like disposition was constantly throwing Marcus off, and he figured it was best to just let this man say what he had to say. Marcus got the distinct feeling that Randall knew more than he let on.

"So, we've discovered who our 'Bruiser' is, but..." Randall turned to Anya. "Who's our Blondie?"

Anya, who had been silently bristling by Marcus' side every time Randall opened his mouth, now stood stiffly and blinked at Randall.

"Anya. Anya Stroud."

The light of recognition glinted in Randall's eyes. "Stroud? As in, Major Helena of Aspho Fields?"

"As in her daughter." Anya didn't miss a beat. It was almost imperceptible, but Marcus felt her stand a little straighter at the mention of her war-hero mother.

"Look," Marcus interjected, hoping to use Anya's confidence to bring this conversation back under their control. "We've got shit to talk about, so cut the bull."

Randall didn't seem even slightly intimidated by Marcus' gruff tone. Instead, he stifled a laugh and clapped a hand to his forehead.

"Ah, I'm sorry. I'm sure I seem like a crazy asshole. Really." He rubbed his neck. "I just thought you might...I don't know...know me."

Marcus furrowed his brow. _Know?_ Was he supposed to recognize this guy? The sergeant scanned Randall's face again, racking his brain for any kind of familiarity. Had he trained with this man? _No. _Served with him? _No, not recently. Maybe in the Royal Tyran Infantry..._

"Hurnan." Randall smiled. "I'm Randall Hurnan."

Realization hit Marcus like a Boomer punch to the face. _Hurnan. As in old dead Hurnan. _This man was somehow related to one of Marcus' fallen RTI comrades from the Pendulum Wars. Anya's eyes were wide; she had been a CIC officer for Private Hurnan in Aspho Fields.

"You're the younger brother, then," she reasoned, shaking her head slightly.

Randall nodded. "Indeed. I was still in high school when he died, but I enlisted the moment I reached the age requirement. I...realize it was a bit of long shot, but I thought maybe he might've mentioned his baby bro when you fought with him."

Anya had gone rigid. "Enlisted?"

Once again, they were met with that knowing grin.

"Still am," Randall replied. "Corporal Randall Hurnan of Echo squad."

Marcus' mind raced as the slick man threw his last curveball. _Echo squad. Stranded Gears. Rescue mission._

_ Shit._

"Echo squad?" Marcus blinked. "Ah, hell. The COG's been looking for you bastards"

At last, Randall's smile met its match. The corporal furrowed his brow. "Since when does the COG waste perfectly good fuel on goose chase rescue missions? Shit, after the first couple of days, I thought we were on our own for sure."

"How'd you get _here?_" Anya jumped in. "I mean...they're Stranded. Why didn't they just kill you and sell you for scrap?"

"Hah, good question! Turns out, my squad and I ended up meeting them after saving one of their scouts' asses—the lovely Tasha, actually—and they needed some help, so we just sort of...fell in with them."

Marcus' face was glacial. "That easy, eh?"

"Okay, hold on just a moment, Randall," Anya said. "Where's the rest of your squad?"

Randall jerked his head over to the men he'd been speaking to prior to their arrival. But there was only two; not nearly as many as they were told to search for.

"And the others?" Marcus asked, though he had little hope for the answer..

The man closed his eyes and shook his head sadly. "Dead. Two of my best privates, too."

Marcus' grunted. "What happened?"

"We were sent to patrol the sink site shortly after it's appearance, make sure that no Locust stragglers used it for ground level access." Randall's honeyed eyes narrowed in remembrance. "It was all going well until just over a week ago. We got ambushed by a Corpser. Son of a bitch came of out nowhere."

"Hmph, I guess a Corsper attack is the Ilima welcome wagon," Marcus said grimly. His shoulder still harboured a dull ache from when their own brush with the tunnelling beast.

Anya bowed her head in respectful sympathy. "I'm sorry to hear about your men, Corporal." she said softly, but her eyes were on Marcus. He could tell by the concern etched into her delicate features that she was thinking the exact same thing he had been.

_If Echo didn't need rescuing, then what the hell was Delta-Two doing?_

Instinctively, the sergeant's mind bellowed at him to contact Dom and tell him about the latest change of plans. God only knew what trouble Delta was having, traversing the ruined city on foot in a futile search for non-existent soldiers; if Marcus didn't inform them now, then they would only be putting themselves in more pointless danger. Sixteen years of experience in the field of battle told Marcus to get back to his squad and bring 'em home.

But Anya was staring at him again, and he knew he couldn't do anything of the sort. They had finally found someone who might be willing to help them find Jackie, and he couldn't bail out now. Marcus reminded himself that Dom was capable of keeping Delta alive on his own, and, making a mental promise to contact him as soon as possible, the Gear focused on the task at hand.

"So," Randall broke the rising silence. "I suppose you want to discuss this so-called 'shit' that you've come so far for."

It was Anya's turn to take over. "Yes. We're looking for someone, actually, and we believe she may be here in your Stranded outpost."

Randall raised a brow. "She?"

"A younger girl, about eleven years old."

"Well, we've got a lot of kids. Specifics?"

"Easy. She's got heterochromia."

Randall's blank expression said that the word meant nothing to him.

"Two different coloured eyes," Marcus explained. He thought back to the conversation he had with Anya back in Fellings Station. "One blue, one green."

"You're kidding." The corporal's eyes grew wide. "I remember her. Quiet scrap of a girl; never saw her speak to anyone. Came with an older woman with a Wretch bite."

A wave of relief washed over Marcus; the 'older woman' must have been the caretaker Anya had hired to stay with Jaqueline. Anya took an involuntary step forward. "Do you remember her name?"

"Oh, God, I don't know. Jasmine? Jocelyn?"

"Jacqueline." Anya's voice was barely a whisper. "Where is she?"

At this, a shadow fell over Randall's face, and the very thing Marcus had been dreading was upon them.

"I...I wish there was something else I could tell you, but..." He bit his lip. "Your Jacqueline, she disappeared."

_Shit...no._

Anya stared, stunned, at the corporal. For a moment, Marcus wondered if she had even heard what Randall had told her. But then her shoulders fell, her chest caved, and her hand went to her mouth.

"Disappeared," she repeated dumbly.

Randall nodded, his face contorted in shared remorse. "We do a daily headcount, to make sure that everyone's safe. The woman she arrived with died, and I guess the girl lost it...I remember that they reported a child was missing. It was the girl with the eyes; poor thing must have just sneaked out in the middle of the night. Didn't even take anything with her, she just...left."

Anya's eyes were glazed over and her hands were quivering; Marcus knew she was losing her battle against a tidal wave of crushing disappointment. He placed a bracing hand on her shoulder and turned to Randall.

"How long ago did she disappear?"

"Two days past. I would have sent a search party for her, but our scouts have been stretched so thin, and—"

The sergeant gave his head a single, firm shake. "It's not your fault. Thanks for the intel."

Randall nodded reluctantly, obviously uncomfortable with how unhelpful he was. "You'll continue to look for her?"

Marcus didn't have to exchange glances with Anya to know the answer to that. "We've come this far," he said.

"That's...good to hear." Randall replied. "Look, Sergeant, we have food and beds; you can stay here for as long as you need."

Marcus was instantly grateful. He had been more than a little concerned about the 'hospitality' they'd receive from the bitter Stranded, but if their leader offered them safety and shelter, than they would be home-free.

And yet, of course, they couldn't sleep now. Jackie had been freshly ripped from their grasp, and now she could be anywhere. Resting now was not an option.

But then he felt Anya shaking under his hand, and the fog of fatigue ebbed at his brain; he wondered if they were even _able_ to go on.

Randall seemed to sense their moment of weakness, because he frowned and motioned to a row of empty benches by the windows.

"With all due respect, sir, you two look like hell," the corporal said tentatively. "It would be my _strong_ suggestion that at least take a few minutes to rest."

Marcus looked down at Anya; her skin was pale, and she was still very unsteady.

"Your call," he said quietly.

Anya inhaled slowly and pursed her lips. "Only a few."

Randall seemed pleased by her relent, and he jerked his head back towards the benches. "Take as long as you need; I'll see that no one gives you any grief."

Marcus aimed his unstable lieutenant towards the benches, then, as she tottered away, turned back to Randall.

"What will _you_ do?" Marcus asked in a low voice.

"Stay with them," Randall replied quickly, as if he'd known what his fellow Gear would say. The copper-haired man ignored Marcus' resulting incredulous expression and sighed.

"Look, Fenix...Stranded or not, these people need protection. Leadership." Another lopsided smile played up at the corners of his mouth. "And all that other COG bullshit, too."

Marcus couldn't argue with the fairness of Randall's logic. People in need were just that: people. He found himself admiring the corporal's rare immunity to bias.

"Fair enough," he said. "But you can't stay out here forever."

"Oh, we know. Tasha's informed me that the Stranded in Belphe have offered asylum to their Stranded brethren all across Sera. Well, those who are willing to cooperate with the COG, that is."

"You're gonna make a break for Belphe, then?"

Randall nodded. "We've got a couple of old junked ambulances that we're trying to get in working order. If all goes well, we'll all be in the city within the week." At this, the Stranded leader seemed to get an idea. "You know...we could help you and the lieutenant back to Belphe when we leave."

The image of a livid Tasha popped up intrusively in Marcus' brain; he'd hate to see what the Stranded woman would say if two Gears jacked their food, their beds, _and_ their ride. "Thanks, but we're gonna have to pass." he replied dryly. "Besides...I've got some more men out there."

The corporal seemed to understand. "Well, I'll be the last person ask you to abandon your boys." He glanced over at the benches. "Good luck, Fenix."

"You too, Hurnan," Marcus replied. "Thanks. For everything."

The soldiers saluted each other in an oddly formal sort of way, and Marcus headed back to the benches. Anya was pacing back and forth in front of the windows, her face blank.

"Anya." The sergeant's growl woke Anya from her reverie. "You need to rest."

"I'm okay, Marcus." she protested as Marcus sat her down on a bench and took a seat beside her. "Really, I just need to...sit down for a second..."

"We both do. We're no good to Jackie without rest."

At this, the woman covered her face with her hands and sighed. "Oh, fuck. Marcus, I'm so sorry. I'm passing out because of a damned conversation, and here you are, going hard for days without complaint."

Marcus had been worried about this; Anya had been teetering on this edge of self-doubt and hopelessness ever since they'd left Belphe, and he'd been working continuously to keep from tumbling over the edge.

"It's not about me, Anya. It's about Jackie. We need to think of where else she could be. Where would she go?"

"I don't know, Marcus." Anya's voice quavered, but Marcus pressed harder.

"Come on," Marcus urged, his own mind racing to come up with some sort of answer. He thought back to the moment when Anya had first told him about Jackie.

"You said your house was close to here?"

Anya's face lifted from her hands and she gazed at Marcus. He knew he had struck a chord.

"Yes. Number 612. It's...just a few blocks away," she said slowly, processing the information.

Marcus' eyes bored into her, willing her to see the sense in his prompt. It was more than a little strange that a young girl would voluntarily leave the safety and security of the outpost without taking anything. However, Marcus was extremely familiar with the _lonely kid_ act, and if he had to hazard a guess, he'd probably say that Jackie had run away to be alone with herself and figure the mess of her life out on her own. The death of her caretaker obviously hadn't helped things, either. Maybe she had gone back to Anya's house. Maybe someone was there with her. Maybe Jackie was safer than they thought.

"We'll search my place, then," Anya said steadily, and Marcus knew she had come to the same conclusion. The woman seemed to draw strength from the formation of a stable plan, and she straightened her broken posture. "Yes. We'll leave today and..."

Anya was looking at Marcus closely now, studying his face. Marcus tried to look more awake. He wasn't going to let his own fatigue bring her down.

"Randall's right, Marcus. You do look like hell." Anya frowned. Marcus looked into her eyes, and he saw—_knew_, from sixteen years of knowing her—that she was torn. The careful, prudent, officer Anya wanted to tell him to lie down, eat, get some sleep. But the desperate, maternal Anya was prioritizing; was putting Jackie above him. That Anya was now considering sacrificing his personal well-being for a young girl's life.

That was exactly how he wanted her to think.

"You know I'm fine." His voice was gruff, but honest. "Let's just get ready to get out of here."

She smiled, and it seemed to have the curious ability to make his fatigue and pain melt away. Yes, he could hold out for another couple of hours.

"I don't mean to break up your joyous little conversation here, but I have a delivery for one Blondie and Bruiser."

Marcus and Anya glanced up; Tasha was standing by the benches with an armful of weapons and supply packs. With a resounding crash that made the Stranded of the outpost turn around and scowl, she dropped the assorted gear at Marcus' feet and dusted off her hands.

"Randall ordered me to give me back your shit unconditionally, which is bull, because I _specifically_ remember you promising to be of 'mutual benefit'."

Anya reached down and began sifting though the pile of supplies for her Snub pistol. "Well, if you had been paying attention, you would recall that I promised only that we would allow you to escort us back to your outpost."

Marcus, now busy with re-arming himself, expected a scathing remark, but no such remark came. Instead, Tasha had traded in her default scowl for an almost-sympathetic frown.

"Randall told me that you're looking for the girl that went missing."

There was a pause. "Yes, we are." Anya holstered her pistol.

Tasha nodded in understanding. "Your daughter?"

It took a moment for Marcus to realize that the Stranded woman had directed the question at both Anya and himself. He opened his mouth to reply, but Anya was quick to step in.

"Oh, no no no. No. She's my goddaughter."

Tasha glanced pointedly at Marcus, as if to enquire what his role in this screwed up family crisis was, but Anya offered no explanation. Strangely enough, the sergeant was rather relieved by this. What would she say anyways? _Oh, and this is Marcus. He isn't the father; he just demanded to tag along for shits and giggles._

"Well, good luck, then," Tasha said, perhaps sensing the tense shift in conversation. She gave an awkward little wave, then turned away and melted back into the Stranded crowd. When she had disappeared, Marcus faced Anya and gestured at one of their recovered supply packs.

"Eat. I have to go take care of something."

"Take some of your own medicine," Anya retorted, rifling through the pack and procuring two shining ration bars.

The sergeant ignored her and rose to his feet. "Later. I've got something more important right now."

Anya's slender brows formed a frustrated line, but she offered no more resistance as Marcus made off down the hall.

"Hurry back!" she called out after him. He turned to throw a nod of reassurance over his shoulder, then pushed through the double doors and out of the outpost.

—

The insanely thick soles of the sergeant's armoured boots made it hard going as he clunked heavily up the grated steps of the narrow stairwell. He scaled one flight, rounded the corner, and started up another set of stairs. He had to be getting close; for the umpteenth time, Marcus halted his ascent, pressed his finger to his ear, and listened.

Once again, he was greeted by nothing but static. He huffed and continued up the stairs. He was probably about five floors up, and still he couldn't get any reception with his tac-com. Of course, once he got to his destination—the roof of this broken down hospital—he should have no problem reaching Delta squad. Then he could tell Dom everything he knew, and finally put his conscience to rest.

Putting yet another flight of stairs behind him, the sergeant found himself in front of a solid metal door with peeling green paint. He turned the tarnished handle, and stepped out into a blast of cold wind. He was standing on a conglomerate of roofing gravel, melted steel and charred debris; to his left, the roof stretched out over the unscathed portion of the hospital. To his right, however, he discovered that the roof—as well as much of the rest of the building—simply dropped off, just like the subway tunnel. Venturing closer, Marcus saw that the half of the hospital that had been devoured by the sinkhole was—while still smoking—no longer on fire. That was good news for the Stranded and their outpost; after meeting Randall, Marcus honestly hoped they would get along without too much difficulty.

The sergeant stood on the edge of the collapsed building and once again pressed a finger to his tac-com. The static was still there, but the gentle buzzing of a partially open line was coming through. Marcus knew this was as good as it got, and he cleared his throat.

"Come in, Delta squad, this is Sergeant Fenix. Repeat: Delta squad come in."

He waited. Ironically, the limited signal capabilities of Ilima's airwaves had proven to be a much-needed bonus. If Control back in Belphe couldn't hear their tac-com conversations, they couldn't put him or Anya on charge for being AWOL.

The static in Marcus' ear suddenly formed into quasi-words, and the sergeant strained to make them out.

_"Well, if it isn't everyone's favourite hard-ass."_

"Baird, cut the crap and tell Dom to get on the line."

_"Oh, yes, your Majesty," _came the predictable response. _"Hey, Santiago, your boyfriend wants to chat with you."_

The line clicked as another tac-com entered the channel; Marcus could hear Baird as he sang the chorus of 'I Just Called to Say I Love You' in the background.

_"Hey, man," _Dom said at last. _"Long time, no love."_

The sergeant couldn't help but feel slightly relieved at the sound of his old friend's voice. It wasn't often that they completed missions separately, and Marcus had found himself wishing he had Dom's gun at his side more than a few times.

"How's everything on your end?"

_"I don't know. Echo must be actively running from us or something, because we've searched the entire east quarter just short of leaping headfirst into the sinkhole, and all we've found is an abandoned APC."_

"Dom...Echo squad is gone."

_"Gone? What, as in_—_?"_

"KIA, confirmed by their corporal."

_"Corporal? Um, what?"_

"Long story," Marcus sighed. "All you need to know is that your part in all this is over."

_"You mean, we get to go home now?"_ Marcus could almost hear Dom's tired smile through the link. _"Wait. Hold on a second. What about you and Anya? Are you guys still on your 'top secret mission'?"_

"...Yeah."

_"Shit...man, you sound dead tired. Come on, tell me what's going on."_

Marcus inhaled deeply, then turned away from the edge of the roof. "...Anya's on a rescue mission for her goddaughter."

The channel fell silent as Dom digested this new information.

_"...Holy shit, Marcus. That's big. I didn't know Anya had a goddaughter."_

"I don't think anyone did," Marcus said. "Her name's Jacqueline."

_"So...what are you going to do? I mean, so you find this girl_—_Jacqueline?_—_and then what?"_

"Shit, I don't know. Right now, we just need to find her."

Dom's responding silence seemed to concede the point.

_"Look, man, you can't make it back to Belphe all by yourself, especially not if you're packing a kid around_—_"_

"Dom, I know what you're—"

_"_—_So it makes sense if we meet you at the edge of Ilima. Baird thinks he can get this APC running, so we can load you three up, make tracks to Belphe, and Control will be none the wiser."_

Marcus took a moment and seriously considered Dom's offer. He had to remember that he wasn't the sole person in this situation; he had a lieutenant—and if all went well, a young girl—to look our for. Maybe he could make the arduous journey by himself, but there was no way he could ask Anya and Jackie to keep up with him. Right now, a Centaur pick-up might mean the difference between success and failure; life and death.

"Alright," he said at length. "Stay on the down-low until I radio in with Jackie. We'll meet up with you as soon as we can."

_"Awesome."_ The relief in Dom's voice was apparent. _"We'll see you on the other side."_

"Thanks, Dom. Fenix out."

The com channel buzzed as Marcus cut the link and let his hand drop to his side. He took a deep breath, letting the smoky air rush through him and fill his lungs. Bright sunlight flooded his vision, and he screwed his eyes shut. He knew he had to get back to Anya; they had to leave soon.

* * *

_30 Minutes After the Beginning of E-Day, 15 Years Ago..._

Marcus snapped his cell phone shut and took a deep breath. He looked around the coffee shop; the tables were empty and everyone inside had fled. Leaning against the wall, his bloody hands clenched into fists, was Dom. He was staring, wide-eyed, at the body crumpled at his feet.

"What...what the fuck _are_ these things?"

Marcus furrowed his brow at the hideous creature. The grotesquely muscular beast seemed to be humanoid. No. Marcus corrected himself. Not even remotely human. It had arms and legs and a torso and a head, but it was _not_ human. This thing was a monster. Its mouth was lined with crooked fangs; its flesh was scaly and grey, the lifeless eyes tiny and black. It looked like some sort of reptilian insect hybrid; and it made Marcus slightly sick to look at.

Dom's face told Marcus that he was feeling the same way.

"It just...came out of the ground. It came out and started killing people."

Marcus screwed his eyes shut. He knew; he had been there when the monster burst into the coffee shop and opened fire on the patrons inside. He had been there when Dom leapt at the thing. He had watched as his friend choked the life from the thing with his bare hands.

"That...that was Anya." Marcus stared at his cell, working hard to keep his voice steady. "She said the COG is ordering an emergency mobilization of all Gears. These things...they're emerging all over the world."

Dom was still staring at the dead creature. He didn't move.

"Dom." Marcus put a steadying hand on his friend's shoulder. "We gotta go. People are dying out there; they need us."

"Anya said these things are popping up all over?" Dom looked up at Marcus; there was a strange look in his dark brown eyes.

"Yeah. That's why we gotta—"

"Maria and the kids," Dom said suddenly and pushed himself off the wall._ "They _need me."

Marcus closed his eyes. He should have known Dom would do this.

"The kids are at my parents' place. You don't have to come with me, man." Dom said breathlessly as he searched the corpse. He came back up with the thing's foreign-looking gun. "But I need to make sure they're okay."

"As if I'm letting you go alone." He trotted up beside Dom. They stared each other down for a few seconds, but it wasn't long before they realized that neither would back down. Conceding silently, they left the cafe together.

The outside air was thick with screams; the curling, metallic stench of blood was suffocating. Death hung like an intangible shroud that smothered the city. The two soldiers started off down the street that led to Dom's apartment.

_ How was this happening?_

It was an ambush; any soldier worth his bullets knew that. But it was on such a massive scale. How did they—those _things_—pull this off?Anya, who must have been in the CIC right now, had said that the attack was city wide.

_ How many were dead?_

As they ran through the city, the extent of the damage became sickeningly apparent. People were running around, screaming for loved ones, clutching bloody wounds, begging for help. There were bloodstains on the pavement, and in the windows of the street side shops. After every gore-smeared wall they passed, Dom dug in a little harder, and Marcus had to sprint to keep up with him.

_ How the hell were they going to come back from this?_

Would they be able to defend the city from these bastards with their resident military alone? Or would they have to plead for assistance from the other nations of the Coalition? Would they get help in time, or will humanity have drowned in its own blood before enforcements even arrive?

After what felt like hours later, they were outside the entrance to the Santiagos' apartment building.

The double doors were open; keeping their heads down, the friends rushed into the foyer. Inside, there were people lying on the marble floor; people crying; people dead.

"Has anyone seen the Santiagos?" Dom's voice echoed in the cavernous space.

He was met with blank stares and shaking heads.

"Anyone? Two kids? Sylvia and Benedicto Santiago?"

At this, a thin woman shuffled up to Dom. Her arm was bleeding.

"Dominic Santiago?" Her breath was laboured. "Eduardo's boy?"

Dom nodded eagerly. "Have you seen him? My kids are with him and Mom..."

The woman knit her brow. "No, but I think...I think I saw your wife."

"Maria? You saw Maria?  
"Y-yes. She ran in about ten minutes ago.."

Dom looked like he was about to shake the woman in his excitement. "Is she up there now?"

No sooner had the woman nodded, then Dom shot off up the stairs to the second floor, where his parents' apartment was. Within moments, they were in front of the door.

It stood ajar. Dom held up his hand and listened. Marcus strained his ears; inside, the apartment was silent.

Dom pushed open the door with the muzzle of his stolen gun. "Mom, Dad? Maria?"

No answer. He stepped inside, Marcus right behind.

The apartment was ruined. A dishevelled woman was sitting like a broken doll on a sofa in the family room. Dom ran forward and swept her up.

"Oh my God, Maria, baby. You're okay," he whispered fiercely into her hair. "You're okay."

Something was wrong. Maria was silent; she didn't return Dom's embrace. Marcus held his breath. Dom sensed it too.

"Maria...where's Mom and Dad?"

The woman just stared at him.

"Maria, please...Benny and Sylvie, where are _they?_"

Maria's beautiful eyes clouded. It was all she could do to stare numbly at the door that led to the children's room.

"No." Dom whisper was barely audible. The silence of the claustrophobic apartment was becoming unbearable. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Dom edged towards the door. It was bloody. He opened it and looked inside.

Marcus watched as his friend fell to his knees.

"No."

Maria was crying silently now. Dom crumpled to the floor. His gun dropped uselessly to his side.

"No! NO!"

Dom's agonized wails of horror filled the suddenly claustrophobic apartment. Just like Maria, he was frozen, unable to move, to speak, to think.

Somewhere beyond the tiny windows in the wall, another scream rang out through the streets.


	8. Despite The Wolves

Well, I hate this chapter and will rewrite it, but my joy at finally having character selections in the GoW section negates any feelings of rage that may have been experienced.  
Just two things, really:  
_First_, more thank-yous to the reviewers! It's so great to hear what everyone has to say.  
_Second_, make sure you occassionally check the first AN every once in a while, because I list the edits I make to previous chapters (_for your convenience!_ :D ). But really, if something suddenly doesn't make sense, it may be because I've changed something.  
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* * *

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**Chapter Seven: Despite The Wolves**

The wide, two-storeyed house was almost identical to the countless others that lined the crumbling street, its glass windows glinting forlornly in the midday sun. The faded blue wooden walls, while chipped and scuffed, were wholly intact, and the grey-shingle roof looked uncommonly stable. Everything, from the black lacquered door, to the overgrown flower garden in the front yard, suggested that this abandoned house was once a warm home, steeped in rich memories.

"612." Anya broke the relative silence of the empty street and pointed to the silver number sign on the door. "This is it."

Marcus slowed to a halt at the cement walkway that led to the house's entrance. _It looks empty, _he wanted to say, but he knew that would only jinx them now. Anya was at his side, and her creased expression told him she was thinking the same thing.

"Come on." she said at last, and stepped up to the door. Coming up behind her, Marcus could see that the door was open slightly. He exchanged a hesitant look with his lieutenant, then held his Lancer at the ready and nudged the door. The wooden door creaked softly on its hinges, and the two Gears stalked into the Stroud house.

It was strangely well-lit inside; sunlight was streaming in through the many windows, splashing across the green flower wallpaper and flooding the hardwood floor. The bottom floor was almost entirely one room, with the kitchen and living room occupying most of the open space. Dark green couches, oaken sidetables, and a dusty television adorned the cluttered living room; in the corner, a spiral staircase wound up to the second floor. On the opposite end of the floor was a simple white-tiled kitchen with a clean wooden table set. However, a quick sweep over the scene told Marcus that something wasn't right: the cupboards were all open, their contents strewn carelessly about.

"Don't suppose you decided to have a last-minute eating binge before the sinking?" Marcus asked grimly. Anya's mouth formed a thin line, and she brought her Snub to bear.

"So someone's been in here." The woman opened her mouth wide, but Marcus saw what she was doing and gave her an urgent nudge.

"Don't call out for her." he said, glancing about the home. "There could be someone else in here."

A shadow of frustration marred Anya's grimy face, but she remained silent. Judging by the fact that they'd been inside the house for more than a minute and hadn't come face to face with anyone, Marcus guessed that the second floor was their best bet. Staying stealthy, the sergeant walked over to the stairs and began to creep up the narrow wooden steps, Anya close behind. He emerged onto the second floor and found himself in a long, narrow hallway. There were two doors to his left and one to his right; at the end of the hall, sunshine poured through a window and made a slanted patch of light on the oak floor. With Anya right behind him, the sergeant stole down the hallway and came to the first door on the left. It was open, and a quick glance inside proved the room inside to be a yellow-tiled bathroom. It was empty.

"Next room." Anya whispered. It was strange; other than the ransacked kitchen, they hadn't seen anything to prove that they weren't alone in the house, yet they still made an effort to keep their voices low..

Marcus gestured questioningly to the door on the right; this door, like the second one on the left, was closed.

"Jackie's room." was Anya's response. There was a quiver of fragile hope in her voice. Marcus was about to make the natural suggestion that they search Jackie's room first, but was cut short when a gentle thud resounded from somewhere behind the third door.

Marcus made instant eye contact with Anya and pointedly raised his Lancer. She followed suit with her pistol, and together, they positioned themselves by the door.

"Jackie?" Anya called out gently; Marcus winced, but he could hardly blame her. He knew Anya had to be crawling out of her skin, being so close to finding Jackie, yet just out of arms' reach.

Their only reply came in the form of another thud.

"What room is this?" Marcus asked as he put his hand on the silver doorknob.

"Mine."

Marcus gave a curt nod, then, agonizingly slowly, he turned the knob.

The door swung open soundlessly; there was another bump.

They inched inside the cream-walled room. It was small, but tidy, with a tightly-made bed along one wall and a cushy loveseat under a wide, lilac-curtained window. Anya crept up behind Marcus. For a moment, the sergeant was perplexed--there was no apparent source for the strange thudding in that room--but then Anya strode over to a smaller door in the corner, and Marcus understood. The thing, whatever it was, was in the closet.

It happened so fast: Anya opened the closet door. Maybe it was because she was back in her old house, maybe she felt like she didn't have to keep her guard, but she just _opened _it.

There was a Wretch inside.

It was gnawing on something. An instant later: Anya was stumbling backwards, the Wretch at her throat. She couldn't get her pistol up to shoot. Her scream shattered the sleepy midday silence.

Another second passed: Marcus was there. He grabbed the Wretch by the handle on its harness; his muscles jerked as he threw the monster into the floor, stunning it. He snatched up his Gnasher, and in one fluid movement, he brought the barrel of the shotgun down on the Wretch's skull.

His breath came in deep, measured draws. Slowly, he pulled the gun from the bloody mess and turned. Anya was still on the floor; Marcus could see the thin line of blood that trickled down the sinews of her neck.

"Shit, Anya...are you okay?"

Wordlessly, the woman gingerly drew herself up onto her knees. As Marcus approached her, he saw that, thankfully, the scratches on her neck were not deep. The sergeant offered his hand, but Anya didn't even look at it. She remained on the floor, her shoulders hunched and her hands wrapped around her reddened neck.

"It was _eating_ something."

Marcus didn't have to glance back at the closet to know what she was talking about. In the split second before the Wretch had attacked, it had been chewing on something. _Eating_ something.

"Did you see?" Marcus asked grimly. Anya gave a shaky nod, bringing her unsteady hands to her face. For Anya's sake, he put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, then moved toward the closet to investigate for himself. He was more than a little apprehensive for what he was about to see.

The closet loomed before him like a black hole in the heart of the house. A cool draft blew out from inside it; Marcus looked inside.

The walls of the tiny room were lined with Anya's clothes; elegant blouses, soft-looking shirts, worn-down blue jeans. There was a ragged hole in the top corner of the closet where the Wretch had clawed its way in. But the floor--the assorted shoes, the boxes of clothes, everything--was soaked in blood. In the centre of the gore was a single gnawed bone. It was still covered in bloody meat.

In any other situation, it might have been dismissed as the remains of an unfortunate dog, but right then, it looked exactly like a human femur.

Marcus stepped back and shut the closet door with a tiny _click_. He closed his eyes to the horror; his mind was trying in vain to form some kind of curse for the Locust monsters that did this, but he found he was blank inside.

"She was _counting_ on me."

Hearing Anya's choked words, Marcus spun around. She was lying in a crumpled heap, legs splayed like a broken doll. The sergeant dropped to one knee before her and laid hands on her trembling shoulders. She looked up at him; tears glistened on her dirty cheeks. Not since the death of Helena Stroud had Marcus seen Anya like this. Her hollow blue eyes screamed_ destroyed._

"Anya..."

"It's over." Anya whispered. "It's all over."

Marcus could only watch, helpless, as the woman physically broke. Her head fell, her spine bent, and she leaned weakly on Marcus's raised knee. Her body heaved as violent sobs began to rack her powerless frame.

The sergeant did the only thing he could. He dropped his weapon to the floor, bowed over his friend's shuddering body, and locked his arms around her. He couldn't fight off these demons for her now, but he could block out everything else, could make a physical barrier between Anya and everything else.

The waves of Anya's heartbreak ripped right through Marcus, and every cry that erupted from her lips made Marcus wince as if his own skin was being torn. He was all too familiar with this kind of hurt; a vicious breed of razor-sharp grief that coursed mercilessly through one's veins. The kind of agonizing mourning that made you cry so hard, you would have been grateful to throw up. The kind that was so physically painful, you could _feel_ yourself rending apart.

The sounds of Anya's breathless gasps of grief suffocated the small room. Marcus didn't say a word; he just kept her steady and waited patiently for the keening to quiet. Eventually, the sobs lessened in intensity. He didn't dare move--she would get up when she was ready. Then they would pack up, maybe take a night to rest up, and begin their long trek back to meet with Delta...

Marcus's ears perked, and the skin on his neck burned; something was behind him, lurking just beyond the blurred edge of his peripherals. He cursed silently--they couldn't get a break. The muscles in his arms tensed around Anya, and his hand edged for the sidearm holstered on his thigh.

Within the space of a second, the Boltok pistol was in his grip, and he was whirling around to face the thing behind him.

He found himself staring down the barrel of his gun at a small, round face. Female. Young. _Human._

Her eyes shone in the midday sunlight--one green eye, one blue.

"Auntie?"

The moment those words left the girl's mouth, spoken so softly, Marcus knew. The cold metal of the pistol weighed heavy in his hand and, unable to speak, he lowered the gun out of Jackie's face.

Anya, perhaps still trapped in the fog of her now premature mourning, was slow to uncurl from her place at Marcus's feet. As if in the midst of a dream, the woman looked to the girl: she was short, her unkempt auburn hair falling limply to her shoulders; her clothes were ratted and torn--through some of the ripped fabric, Marcus could see that she was covered in scratches and bruises.

"Jacqueline." Anya murmured at length. It wasn't a question, it was a statement; an affirmation of the existence of the girl that stood before her. In a torrent of realization, Anya scrambled to the youth and wrapped her up in a suffocating embrace. Marcus watched as the emotional scene unfolded: Anya crushed Jackie to her chest, crying her name into her hair again and again, new tears making tracks in the grime on her face. Jackie must have been in shock as well, because it was all she could do to remain upright in the face of Anya's emotional onslaught--Marcus could see she was barely there.

After a long moment, Anya finally drew herself back and held her goddaughter at arms' length. The woman smiled gently at Jackie, as if she would disappear if she looked at her for too long.

"How did you do it?" Anya asked, her clear blue eyes full of wonder. "How did you survive?"

Jackie's eyes were glossed over, and she had to swallow a couple of times before speaking. "...I came back here." she said plainly, as if the reason was so obvious that she didn't even have to explain it. "And then the monsters came, so I hid...in my room."

Her plan was blissfully simple; Marcus marveled at the child mind.

"But how did you do it?" Anya repeated. "You survived alone for days."

At this, Jackie's head lulled slightly, and she blinked slowly.

"I didn't...I didn't sleep."

Anya's eyes widened, and she gripped the girl. She opened her mouth--whether in shock or to speak, Marcus couldn't tell--but then Jackie's eyes flickered, and her small frame quivered.

"Jackie!" Anya gasped as Jackie collapsed into her arms, completely unconscious. Marcus rushed forward, but it took only a moment for them to discern that the youth was, in fact, only sleeping. Concerned, but so, _so_ relieved, the lieutenant cradled her slumbering goddaughter in her lap.

"You're safe now." she whispered. "It's okay, I'm here now. You're safe."

*** * * * * * * ***

The thin, gauze-like cloth of the lilac curtains fluttered into stillness as Marcus pulled the white-framed window closed. Instantly, the icy pre-winter wind subsided, and the bedroom fell into sleepy silence.

The man turned from the window and glanced at the bed. Swaddled deep inside the heavy quilts laid an eleven-year-old girl, her eyes closed and her tiny frame moving gently with every slow breath. For more than fourteen hours, she had slept, never moving, breaking the steady rhythm of her breathing only to inhale deeply every once in a while. Marcus felt for her; he was familiar with the hell of staying awake for days on end, and even he, a hardened war veteran, found it difficult at times--he could only imagine the havoc such sleep deprivation had wreaked on the girl.

But, just as Anya had murmured again and again, Jackie was safe now. After she passed out, they'd carried her to Anya's bed and simply let her sleep. Anya had insisted on taking watch, and no sooner had Marcus found a couch big enough to support his massive weight, he too had collapsed in exhaustion. When he awoke, the cold interior of the Stroud house was already aglow with pale morning light. Anya had been quick to greet him, shoving a plate of scrambled eggs into his hands and ordering him to watch over Jackie while she searched the house for anything they could salvage.

Marcus looked back to the plate--now sans eggs--and realized that the stereotypes seemed to ring true: just as men snapped easily into protective soldiers, women fell smoothly into the maternal role. However, the thought of Anya morphing into some breed of pseudo-mother was foreign to Marcus--almost uncomfortably so. For nearly half his life, he'd known her as the nervy teenager, as the prudent battlefield comrade, even as the stern com officer; but, for reasons unknown, the notion of Anya as the doting mom scraped intrusively against the sergeant's subconscious.

He pushed the thoughts away. They were selfish, he knew, and he couldn't ignore the fact that Anya was the closest thing to a mother Jackie had now. Besides, he was all too aware that said thoughts were slowly leading him down a path that he did not want to go down. Refusing to enter that territory, the man forgot about his own discomfort and tried to distract himself.

Gazing around the small room, Marcus found his eyes drawn to the narrow table standing against the wall opposite Anya's bed. Other than the loveseat and the bed, it was the only other piece of furniture in the room, and it was smothered with various household trinkets. Marcus stood and, careful to keep his footsteps light, approached the table. Its dusty mahogany surface was covered with delicate glassware, piles of inexpensive jewelry, tubes of lipstick, a comb, and other unremarkable baubles. However, in the centre of the table, like a holy monument rising from the common debris strewn across the tabletop, was a cluster of picture frames surrounding a single dried rose in a slender crystal vase.

With an inherent sort of reverence, the man lowered down to look more closely at the shrine-like collection of photographs. He was slightly surprised to see the face of none other than Major Helena Stroud peering out from within one of the frames. However, she wasn't the hard-ass, order-barking, gun-toting Major Stroud here; she was smiling, sitting in a lawn chair, and Anya was standing behind her, her arms thrown playfully around her mother's neck. The other pictures were all similarly heartwarming, depicting Anya in several of her life stages, as a young girl riding a too-big bike, or as a gussied-up teen laughing with friends. But, there was one picture in particular that caught Marcus's eye.

It had a modest rectangle of worn wood for a frame, and the photograph itself was rather small, having apparently been taken with some sort of instant-development camera. The picture held a colourful scene; a rainbow of balloons and streamers obscured the view of what seemed to be the living room of the house. In the centre of the photograph, a younger Anya was sitting on a green couch--the very couch Marcus had spent his night on--and hugging a bushy-haired toddler in her arms. The child's different coloured eyes were lit up in a moment of shrieking delight as she tore open the brightly-wrapped present that lay in Anya's lap. They were both laughing--Marcus marveled at how _happy_ the two were. After all the years of witnessing nothing but nightmarish gore and horror, Marcus's eyes found it difficult to even register the peaceful purity of the photograph.

There was a quiet rustling from the direction of the bed, and Marcus turned around. Jackie, blinking and yawning, was sitting up her bed. She pushed her auburn locks, barely tousled from her motionless slumber, out of her eyes and, becoming aware of Marcus's presence for the first time, hurriedly drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped the blankets about her shoulders. Her mismatched eyes peered out at Marcus, and he searched for something to say.

"Morning." he decided on the typical greeting. Jackie didn't reply, only stared warily at the sergeant. Marcus wasn't at all surprised at her less-than-exuberant behavior; the poor girl, already parentless, had lost her careworker, watched her city sink into the ground, and suffered an untold number of days in fear holed up in her abandoned house. He was just impressed that she hadn't had an all-out emotional meltdown yet.

Of course, all-out emotional meltdowns didn't always exhibit any kind of external signs. Once again, Marcus knew this all too well.

"Anya's getting you something to eat, Jackie." Marcus said, hoping that hearing her own name, as well as the mention of her only remaining family member, would bring the girl some sort of comfort. Thankfully, Anya's name seemed to have a positive effect on Jackie, and her posture visibly relaxed. However, she still didn't offer any kind of responding conversation, so Marcus just shut up and decided to wait for Anya to return.

For several minutes, they waited, Marcus standing awkwardly by the window, Jackie's gaze never leaving him. Finally, the sound of footsteps reached them from the hallway, and Anya appeared in the doorway. In her arms, she carried a box of cereal and a blue ceramic bowl.

"You're awake!" The woman beamed at Jackie and rushed to the bed. "Here you go, have some breakfast..." Anya poured the cereal into the bowl, procured a spoon from a pocket on her ammo belt, and offered it to the girl.

"The milk went bad, but you need some food in you, so I guess you'll just have to eat it dry. I hope that's okay---"

At the sight of the food, Jackie dropped her cloak of blankets and began to shovel the dry flakes ravenously into her mouth. Evidently, she had no problem whatsoever with milk-less cereal--in fact, judging by her jutting collar bones and gaunt face, Marcus wouldn't have been surprised if the cereal was the first meal Jackie had had since she left the Stranded outpost.

The crease in Anya's brow said that she was thinking the same thing. The woman reached out to smooth a stray piece of hair from Jackie's face. She was silent as she kneeled by her goddaughter; in that moment, Marcus could see that she was still in shock from the sudden recovery of Jackie.

"I'm so glad you're here." Anya's whisper was barely audible. Marcus shifted his weight from foot to foot, debating whether or not to leave and let Anya and Jackie have a moment alone, but Anya quickly rose to her feet and turned to him.

"This is Marcus." she explained to Jackie. "He's a good friend of mine, remember? He's helping us get back home. You can trust him."

Jackie gave the equivalent of a nod of understanding, then dove back into her cereal.

"Thanks for watching over her." Anya gave him an honest smile. "Do you think you could keep an eye on her for just a little longer?"

"Sure." Marcus replied. "Getting supplies?"

Anya nodded. "Yep. We're a little low, and I figured we might as well take what we can."

The lieutenant stole one last glance at Jackie, then dashed out the door.

"Oh, you can take a shower if you'd like." the woman called from the hall. "I think the water's still working."

To Marcus's mild amusement, he found that the first that came up in his head was what a _pain_ it was going to be to get out of his armour. He'd been locked into the heavy metal casing since they left for Ilima--had even slept in it--and the thought of extracting himself from the shell was tempting, but utterly exhausting. And then, of course, once he got it off, there was the whole other issue of getting it back _on_...

"You're Marcus Fenix, aren't you?"

Marcus turned to look at the girl. The bowl lay empty in her lap; she was staring intently at him, her odd eyes wide as saucers.

"Eh, yeah." Marcus faced Jackie fully.

"I've seen you on fronts of the newspapers. They say you're a hero."

Marcus refrained from wincing at the word. Exhaling slowly, the soldier crossed the room to the window. "Oh yeah? Who's 'they'?"

Jackie gave a near-invisible shrug. "The reporters. Miss Morroway. Auntie Anya."

The sergeant furrowed his brow at the mention of Anya, but said nothing.

He stared out the window. They should get going soon.

*** * * * * * * ***

Lukewarm water pounded against his head and streamed down over his muscles, melting away the days of tension they'd built up. It wasn't much, but to the weary Gear, it was forty-some gallons of heaven in a three-by-three tiled box.

He looked down at his battered body and surveyed the damage. From the neck down, he was covered in bruises, mostly due to the severe shit-kicking he took when the Corpser flipped the Centaur. His skin was a patchwork of blues, greens, and purples, all meshed over with white spider webs and divots of scarred flesh. The Xanthine had worn off a long, long time ago, and he was not surprised when the tidal wave of soreness began to wash over him. Stepping back out of the torrent of the shower, he extended his arm out in front of him. Slowly, he curled the arm, and grimaced as tendrils of pain shot through the stiff muscles.

He sighed, then pulled his bandana from his head and held it under the stream of water. No, he wasn't as young as he used to be. Sure, he was in better physical condition than most men his age, and he could probably bench more than someone half his age could, but that didn't change the fact that he was frigging old. Thirty-six: that was only four years off of forty. Fricking _forty_. As he rinsed the grime and ashes from his bandana, he thought back to his first years as a Gear. He was seventeen when he enlisted; back then, forty seemed practically ancient.

But he couldn't sit and moan and bitch about his cuts and bruises; he had a job to do. Against all odds, they had found Jackie, and yet that was only half the battle. They still had to meet up the rest of Delta squad before they could even think of getting back to civilization. Before jumping into the shower, Marcus had radioed Dom. The connection was faint, but they had managed to work out a rendezvous point in the south end of Ilima. Once they had met up, they would pile into the repaired APC and make tracks to Belphe.

Just like every plan he had ever been a part of, it sounded so very easy. But he knew better; they had an emotionally fragile kid with them, and they were still only three people against a whole city crawling with Locust, not to mention that they were running low on ammo. If they were going to get this girl home, they were going to have to be fast and smart.

Those two words thudded dully in his head. Fast and smart; no time for aching muscles and bruised bones. He would have to be at his best for this to work. No slowing down now.

He turned off the water and tied the damp bandana around his head.

No slowing down.


	9. Without Love

Argh. I'm not dead, I promise. Updates will (hopefully) continue in a quasi-normal fashion. Sorry for the long wait, guys! (Because you guys are waiting on the edge of your seats...or holding your breath...or something equally dramatic)...Oh right. Update. Ahem.

First: Kinda went down what could be a risky path here, but I think I like the end result. You'll see.  
Second: There was supposed to be a little exposition-y part about Jackie's Traumatic Childhood (TM), but I am fail when it comes to exposition, and it was horrible, so it was summarily tossed.  
Last: As of July 28th, Armoured Prayer is officially Jossed (outdated because of newer canon, namely Jacinto's Remnant). It gives me a bad case of the sads, but I knew it was going to happen eventually. Ah well, you can just pretend that JR never happened and Karen Travis is just a figment of our collective imagination, right? Right.****

* * *

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Chapter Eight: Without Love

"Just jump, Jacks."

The girl, face partially concealed behind the collar of her jacket and her woolen scarf, stared uncertainly down at Anya.

The lieutenant put on a smile and extended her hand to her goddaughter. They had been making good headway through the Ilimian suburbs, with Jackie making very little in the way of complaints, until they had gotten to the ruined overpass. They had tried to find a way around it, but Anya knew the road at the bottom had a good chance of taking them straight towards the rendezvous point Marcus had negotiated with Delta. They had no choice; they had to go down.

Unfortunately, as they picked their tenuous way down through the twisted steel and concrete, they had discovered Jackie's supreme fear of heights. Now, almost halfway to the road below, Jackie was perched on the edge of a bus-sized chunk of asphalt, with absolutely no intentions of coming down.

"You didn't have a problem with the disinfectant," Anya thought back to how the girl had suffered through the stinging medication they'd applied to her cuts and scrapes without so much as a yelp. "What's so scary about this?"

"Disinfectant can't kill you." Jackie explained quietly, as if it was the most obvious reasoning in the world.

"Come on, it's not nearly as far as it looks. We'll even catch you if you fall."

Jackie glanced from the precipice under her feet to the two adults below her.

"Promise?"

Anya ignored the near-silent sigh Marcus heaved from behind her and broadened her smile.

"Yes, I promise."

With this, Jackie took a deep breath, knelt down, and began to climb down the enourmous concrete block. Her winter boots carefully felt out footholds in the wreckage, and gradually, she made her way down through the wreckage.

Then, several feet above the place where Anya and Marcus stood, Jackie's hand slipped, and she tumbled the rest of the way down. Anya rushed forward--even Marcus jerked forward in an attempt to catch the girl--but Anya honestly hadn't thought Jackie was going to fall, so she could only watch as her goddaughter landed with a breath-blasting thud.

"Jackie! Are you okay?" Anya fell to her knees beside the disheveled girl and immediately began to scan her for injury.

Jackie rubbed her scraped hands together and winced. "I'm okay, Auntie. It just...ow."

Anya wasn't even remotely convinced. "Are you sure? No, look, you tore your coat...oh, God, I'm so sorry...I didn't think you'd---"

Jackie huffed and, with a briskness that shocked Anya, pushed her godmother's hand away. "I'm fine."

Anya sat back on her haunches and watched in mild surprise as Jackie hurried to her feet and brushed herself off. The woman looked to Marcus, but he only shrugged.

"Nothing worse than a bruised ego." he concluded, giving Jackie a rough pat on the back as she shuffled by. "Come on, let's go."

Anya furrowed her brow, but followed her sergeant's orders nonetheless. She rose from her knees and trotted after her companions as they continued their trek down to the road at the bottom of the demolished overpass.

Compared to the first leg of the journey, the rest of the way down was relatively easy-going, and Anya found herself with a rare moment of quiet to herself. Of course, quiet moments led to thinking, and thinking led to contemplating; soon, Anya's mind was racing with all sorts of stray thoughts.

The lieutenant couldn't lie to herself; she was still in system-overload from finding Jackie. After losing Jackie and then getting her back in such a rapid turn of events, Anya was frazzled. For most guardians who'd been reunited with estranged children, they were allowed to simply _be_ with their kids; they could focus completely on drowning them with their tidal waves of repressed affection. Usually, after you found your child, you could rest easy again, because everything was right in the world.

But not Anya. Finding Jackie, while top priority, had only been half of their struggle. Now, they were faced with the seemingly monumental task of getting back to Belphe. Despite having restocked in the Stroud house, they were still low on supplies, and in the back of Anya's mind, she knew that they were racing against time itself. Winter was coming fast, and no matter how full their ration packs were, they couldn't last more than a couple of days when the snows fell.

Anya leaped nimbly down from a jutting tangle of rebar and waited for Jackie to crawl down after her. Then, as much as Anya hated to admit it, there was the biggest encumbrance of them all: Jackie herself. She was slow, timid, and fragile; she couldn't carry a supply pack, and she couldn't fire a gun. If Anya put her loving maternal instincts aside and looked at Jackie through the prudent eyes of a soldier, all she saw was another mouth to feed--one that couldn't even defend itself.

Marcus high-stepped it down a small mountain of crushed asphalt, then came to a skittering halt on the road they sought. He turned back and watched as Anya and Jackie hopped down after him.

"Where to now?"

Anya strode to the sergeant's side and surveyed the area. They were on one of the main highways, with rubble behind them, toppled skyscrapers to their left and right, and the gaping maw of the sinkhole less than a couple miles ahead. Anya knew the road ran from north to south and, judging from the mental map Anya had imprinted in her brain, would more than likely lead them right past Dom's rendezvous point.

"Well, if we just keep following the road left past the sinkhole, then it should eventually merge into that supply road we initially drove into, remember? Once we reach that, it'll take us all the way down into the South end of town." Anya pointed out to an imaginary spot just left of the sinkhole's tell-tale smoke.

Marcus shot her a glance from the corner of his eye. "'Should'?"

Anya stared at him. "Yes." she said shortly. "It should."

The man returned her stare for a moment, then inhaled deeply. "Left it is. Move out."

But Anya was already heading down the highway, pistol out and head high.

Why would he question her like that? She knew he was just being careful, but it wasn't like she could accidentally lead them into some kind of death trap. Sure, she was a little on edge, and she obviously didn't know the whole of Ilima street by street, but she believed she had more than a little credibility when it came to navigating the city. Didn't Marcus think the same?

This led her to mull over something else as they walked down the abandoned road. Ever since they'd left her house back in the suburbs, Marcus had been giving her little looks; tiny, near-imperceptible visual nudges whenever they made eye contact. It was like he wanted to say something, then would think better of it and turn away. Anya was accustomed to Marcus's silent moods, but it was obvious that there was something different this time. Sometimes, she wished he would just come out and say what was on his mind, but that wasn't how Marcus worked.

The lieutenant glanced back over her shoulder at the sergeant. He was marching steadily beside Jackie, his Lancer held loosely at the ready and his gaze set straight ahead. Anya sighed--Marcus would talk when Marcus wanted to talk, and not a moment sooner.

And so they walked on, boots scraping across the gravelly road top. The coming of winter had made the sun small and cold, and though it hung high in the grey sky, it offered no warmth to the travelers. Their path was almost perfectly straight, and for hours, they treaded through intersections, under dead traffic lights, and past abandoned cars, turning only with the natural curves of the road. The trio was completely out of the suburbs now; they were newly surrounded by commercial buildings: cafés, boutiques, beauty salons, restaurants. They had veered slightly away from the sinkhole, so the buildings here were in much better shape than elsewhere in the ruined city. Windows were smashed, and merchandise was long-ago looted, but the structures themselves appeared, for the most part, to be stable. Marcus must have also noticed, because he eventually slowed to a stop in the middle of a four-way intersection and looked around.

"We'll take a rest." he said at length, ambling towards a particularly sturdy-looking Imulsion station on the corner of the intersection. Anya and Jackie were quick to follow, the youngest of the two seeming especially eager for a break. Anya wasn't sure, but she guessed that the young girl's huffing and puffing might have influenced the sergeant's sudden decision.

A bright green hexagonal sign mounted on the squat building's roof declared the station as "Gabby's Gas 'N Go". As they neared the station, it became clear that Marcus's choice in safe houses was sound. The windows, while cracked, were mostly unscathed, and unlike most other buildings in Ilima, the station still had a door. The electricity was obviously out, which meant the pumps would be out of order, too. Anya cursed quietly as they passed the derelict pumps: it had been a long shot, but if they could have gotten fresh gas into one of the cars scattered about everywhere, they might have been able to just drive the rest of the way to the rendezvous point.

Marcus came to one of the wide windows and halted, fist up in the air. Seeing the silent command, Anya immediately went to grab Jackie by the shoulder. The girl yelped as Anya pulled her back.

"It means 'stop'." Anya whispered in Jackie's ear. "Stay back."

Marcus had his Lancer out, muzzle aimed into the darkness behind the scratched glass. Anya brought her Snub to bear and inched out in front of Jackie.

As she got closer to the window, she began to hear the almost inaudible ticking.

"How many?" she breathed. Marcus stepped forward, his steely eyes focusing on something in the gloom.

_Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick._

"Not sure." he replied. Then, his eyes widened ever-so-slightly, and a blast of Lancer rounds shattered the glass. An instant later, there was a muffled explosion, and a spray of blood caught Marcus in the face.

Jackie had screamed; Anya, who had turned away at the last minute, looked at Marcus and found that he hadn't been so lucky. Blood--thick, dark, but inhuman--oozed down his face and armour.

"Just the one." he said dryly. Wiping the Locust blood from his face, he reloaded his gun and moved off towards the door. Anya walked after him.

"Come on, Jacks." the lieutenant called, then glanced back at the girl. She was on the ground, knees drawn up to her chest and eyes wide.

"Oh, Jacqueline." Anya smiled and held out her hand to her goddaughter. "It's okay, Marcus killed it."

Jackie accepted Anya's hand and followed her to the door. "...It exploded."

"Tickers do that, sweetheart."

Jackie shot Anya the woman a look of horror, but she was soon distracted by the resounding crash as Marcus kicked in the door. After a moment's survey of the station proved it to be empty, they entered and got a better look at the place.

"Gabby's really let the place go, huh?" Anya joked as she looked over the disarray of the station's small interior. The wide shelves had long-ago been raided of their cheap junk food, and the broken-down surveillance equipment lay in pieces across the dusty tiled floor. In front of the cashier's desk, hundreds of dollar bills were soaking in the bloody remains of the Ticker.

"Don't look, Jackie." Anya ordered quickly, and the youth hurriedly covered her eyes with her hands.

"What is it?" she asked, voice muffled by her scarf.

"Just a moment." Anya replied. The lieutenant caught Marcus's eye and jerked her head in the direction of the gory Ticker corpse. He sighed, then kicked the pulpy mass through the door and out onto the curb.

"There you go, you can open your eyes now." Anya stroked Jackie's hair, mouthing a silent _thank you_ to Marcus.

Within minutes, they had set up a temporary micro-camp and torn into the rations. Marcus stood watch by the broken window while Anya and Jackie ate. Soon after they'd downed their flavourless protein bars, Jackie rose to her feet and glanced around.

"Bathroom?" The youth frowned at Anya.

The request was so unexpected that Anya couldn't help but laugh.

"Try over there." She pointed towards a marked door near the back of the station. Jackie gave a little nod of thanks, then rushed off to the restroom. Anya chuckled again, then turned her attention to packing up.

"She's pretty tough."

Anya snapped up to stare at Marcus. He was still leaning on the window frame, gazing out over the street.

"I know. She's always been like that."

The sergeant nodded. "You said she wanted to join the army?"

Anya thought back to the conversation they'd had in the subway. "Yes, that's what she's always told me."

"Then I don't have to tell you that we'd be happy to have her."

Anya was somewhat taken aback by the unexpected compliment. She dropped the bags she was packing and joined Marcus at the window.

"Don't say that. She just might join us after all."

Marcus shrugged, as if it wasn't such a horrible thing, and the two fell silent.

"What are you going to do with her?" Marcus broke the calm suddenly.

Anya turned and stared at him. "Do." she repeated blankly.

The sergeant returned her gaze evenly. "Once we're back in Belphe."

Anya didn't know what to say. "Well," she began slowly. "I guess I'll have to wait until we actually get back before thinking about that."

Marcus turned back out to the street. "Fair enough." he said, and the air between them became stagnant once again.

But Anya wasn't done with this. Something in the almost _relieved_ way he'd said "Fair enough" scratched unpleasantly at her brain.

"I'm her godmother, Marcus." the woman said quietly. "I'm not going to just let her go."

Marcus blinked at her sudden reply; Anya just kept going.

"I'm going to raise her." Anya said, gaining strength from the resolve in her words. "I'm going to raise her, and she's going to be okay."

The man faced her.

"Are you sure?"

It was like a slap to the face. _"Was she sure?" _Of course she was. Granted, it hadn't quite sunk in that she was actually going to be the child's sole guardian and caregiver, but the thought of it made her happier than anything else she could think of. Jackie was her responsibility now; she wasn't going to pawn her off just because there was a war going on. Hell, that should only bring them closer.

Marcus must have seen her expression, because he seemed to bite back on the words in his throat.

"Anya, look...you and I both know that you're ass-deep in com duty. You spend more time in the com room than in your own bed. How are you going to watch over her? Feed her?"

The lieutenant just stared. "You don't think I can be a good mother."

At this, Marcus exhaled and rubbed his eyes. "That's not what I said, Anya. It's just---"

"Just what?"

The man opened his eyes to stare blindly out the window. "Sometimes, parents think they're doing what's best for their kid, but it just ends up hurting them more."

Just like that, it all snapped into focus; Anya saw what Marcus was getting at, and it made her angry as hell.

"Goddammit, Marcus, this isn't about you!" she snapped. Marcus's brows twitched upwards at her outburst, but she just steamrolled ahead.

"You said it yourself: this is about Jackie. So don't you _dare_ drag your shitty childhood into this!"

_No. That wasn't fair. He didn't deserve that._ Anya took a shallow breath, and watched as Marcus's face turned to stone.

_Take it back. Now, before it's too late._

He stepped back, his ice-cold eyes never leaving hers.

"I...Marcus..."

"No," he said with painful nonchalance. "I get it."

And then he turned back out to the window, as if nothing had been said; and just like that, Anya was no longer on the "in" with Marcus. Throughout all the long years of their friendship, she'd always been on his good side. It was like his hard, emotionless exterior was always reserved for everyone else, as if she was somehow exempt from that frozen glare. But now she was on the recieving end of that coldness, cast out from that protective circle of special treatment, and it hurt.

_No more than you hurt him..._

"Get packed up." His deep voice was completely devoid of emotion. "We need to get moving."  
The air became thick with the residual hostility; Anya had no choice but to obey. Just as she kneeled to pack up their mini-camp, there was a creak from the back of the station, and Jackie returned from the bathroom. The girl took two steps back towards her godmother, then hesitated, looking uneasily between Anya and Marcus. Anya marveled at the child's ability to sense the tension in the room.

"We're leaving, Jackie." Anya said, struggling to keep the brusque edge from her voice.

"Um, okay." Jackie replied quietly and went to help Anya pack up.

She didn't know how it had happened. One minute, they were having light conversation about Jackie's chosen profession, and the next, she was at his throat. Anya didn't even know where it came from; she was protective of Jackie, but Marcus was one of her closest friends, and while they'd always had little snippety arguments, nothing that malicious had ever passed between them.

The worst part was, he just sat there and took it. No biting comeback, no scathing remark, just silence. That was how Marcus dealt with things. Anya would have rather had him scream and yell at her than give her the icy silent treatment that he was all too adept at.

With the last of the supplies packed away, Anya put her hand on Jackie's shoulder.

"You ready to go?"

The girl nodded, and Anya couldn't help but smile inwardly at her goddaughter's brave show of endurance.

"Well, then I guess we'll---"

"Shut up."

Anya spun around to stare at Marcus, still standing by the window, his eyes drawn skyward.

"Excuse me, Sergeant? Look, just because---"

The sergeant twisted around and glared at her. "Shut up, _please_."

Anya was about to let out another seething reply, but then she realized that he was almost whispering, and she saw the pleading desperation in his eyes.

The sound of rushing air reached her ears. Anya's eyes went wide.

"It's not." she breathed, as if simple denial would somehow prevent what she knew was coming.

"It is." Marcus assured her, then brought his Lancer to bear. Slowly, the sergeant backed away from the window towards the rear of the station, beckoning the girls to follow. The rushing sound, like the engine roar of a faraway jet plane, gradually filled the station.

"We need to get out." Anya whispered fiercly. Jackie was clinging to her side, and the lieutenant fought hard to appear calm.

"Can't." Marcus replied simply, eyes never straying from the windows. "No back door."

"We can't _kill_ it, Marcus."

"...We don't have to."

Anya shot the Gear a confused glance, then the station shook, and with a mighty crash, a Reaver slammed into the street mere feet away from the station door.

Luckily, Anya had had the presence of mind to clap a hand over Jackie's mouth, and the girl's muffled scream was drowned out by the monster's resounding roar.

Anya had only ever seen Reavers from far off, and up-close, they looked bigger and meaner than she'd ever imagined. It was huge, its six spider-like legs scratching and clawing at the ground. There were no riders upon its bulbous, spined back, so the beast was free to do as it pleased. Reclining its reptilian head back, the Reaver opened up its bloody maw and issued forth another roar, then began to feast upon the remains of the freshly killed Ticker that Marcus had kicked outside.

So that was what it was after; somehow, the behemoth had lost its rider, and acted on its most immediate primal want: hunger.

This did not bode well for them.

Jackie was wrapped up in Anya's arms, shaking silently. The lieutenant looked frantically to Marcus; he mouthed the words _don't move_, then crept soundlessly towards the station's closed door. All the while, the Reaver gorged on the Ticker corpse, making disgusting guttural noises and gnashing its jutting fangs. Fangs that Anya had seen rip men in half.

And then, in some bizarre moment of obscure desperation, Anya remembered a tiny, innocuous fact about Imulsion stations that suddenly threatened to kill them all. Somewhere out in front of each gas pump, there was a depression plate laying in wait beneath the concrete. If something as heavy as a car stood on the plate, it would trigger a bell inside the station, designed to alert the cashier to when a car was at the pump. Anya didn't know if it would be a bell or an alarm or a simple electronic beep, but she did know that it would be loud, and she was more than sure that a Reaver was far heavier than a car.

She cursed under her breath. It was a long shot, and the plates were small, but the Reaver's legs were sprawled out over the station's front paving, and they were constantly moving about, gouging the concrete with their black, razor-sharp claws.

Marcus had his back to the closed door now; in his hand was a crimson-glowing piece of spiked metal--a frag grenade. He was going to throw it outside and use it as a distraction; or at least, that's what Anya hoped he was doing. One frag wouldn't do more than annoy the monster, and once its attention had been drawn to them, they couldn't hope to fight it off with their small store of firepower.

Anya's heart slammed frantically against her ribs, sending blood crashing through her veins and in her ears. She looked from Marcus to the Reaver, and back again. He was waiting for the right moment to hurl the grenade, but she mentally pleaded with him to do it soon. The Reaver's stomping legs were only getting closer to the dreaded depression plates...

_Bing._

In an instant, the Reaver whirled to face the bell that pierced the relative quiet inside the station, jaws hanging wide open. Jackie screamed again; Marcus sprung into action. He leapt from the meager cover of the door and up over the window sill. As he catapulted into the air, he grabbed a handle on the side of the Reaver's harness and tagged the grenade. The Reaver was strong, but underneath all his armour, Marcus still weighed a quarter of a ton, and his momentum sent the Reaver swinging as Marcus fell to the ground. A moment later, the station was rocked as the frag exploded right on top of the Reaver, stunning it.

"Go, go, go!" the sergeant bellowed, pelting the prone beast with Lancer rounds. Anya pushed Jackie toward the door. She didn't want to leave Marcus behind, but they couldn't hope to kill it, and Jackie was priority. Without another second's hesitation, the lieutenant threw open the door, took the child's hand in a vice grip, and sprinted out over the street.


	10. A Kick In The Teeth

Argh, another long wait between updates. But this time it was the site's fault. They decided to be all error-y and stuff. Unimpressedness ensued.

Funny story: About three minutes before I went to upload this new chapter, I got this super special awesome idea for changing it all around, but then I realized I wouldn't be able to update for another two weeks (at least) and the idea was promptly nix'd.  
So here: have the original, un-messed-around-with version. Rejoice? Rejoice!

* * *

**Chapter Nine: A Kick In The Teeth**

His frag had blown a bloody chunk out of the Reaver's side, but that didn't stop it from whirling around and trying to sink its teeth into him. He tumbled to the side and felt the fangs streak past him. Rolling onto one knee, the Gear unloaded a clip into the Reaver, then ducked as one of the six lethal claws screamed over his head. At least the Reaver was rider-less; he had enough problems with the teeth and claws without having to worry about dodging bullets and rockets.

But they had run, and that was all that mattered. As long as he could keep this bastard distracted from them until they got to safety, they'd be okay. His own life was insignificant now, secondary to that of a woman and a child. They were counting on him, and he wouldn't let them down.

"You want some of this? Come on, let's go!"

An ear-splitting screech erupted from the Reaver's fanged maw, and it lunged forward. But Marcus was too quick, and he dove to the side again, towards one of the beast's grotesque legs. Before the Reaver could strike again, the soldier revved his chainsaw bayonet and hacked into the leg, throwing all his weight into it. The sinewy limb held for a second, then shredded into red, stringy gore as it gave way to the screaming blades of the chainsaw. Marcus pulled his Lancer from the obliterated leg, but he had to think to fast as another leg swung at him.

He jumped away, but this time, the Reaver beat him. In an instant, the sergeant was sent crashing into the pavement as a claw caught him full in the side.

The air was blasted from his lungs as he hit the concrete. He tried to pull himself to his feet, but he buckled as he discovered that his whole left side suddenly wasn't obeying his brain's commands. His hand shot to his side, where the Reaver had caught him, and pressed against the gashed armour. His senses couldn't pick up anything yet, but he knew what blood felt like.

_Get up. You're not done yet._

The Reaver roared from behind him, and the ground shook as it maneuvered its massive bulk. With a growl of pain and frustration, Marcus willed his body to comply and forced himself to unstable feet.

He was up for less than a second before he was struck back down by another of the Reaver's claws.

Anya heard the cry and spun around. They had run almost a full block from the station, but she could still see the crumpled form of Marcus in the middle of the street, the Reaver looming over him, poised to deliver the final blow.

"NO!" she shrieked. Instinctively, the woman opened fire on the Reaver with her pistol. The rounds were slow and weak, but Anya had been trained in sharp shooting, and she aimed each bullet for the monster's eyes.

It hissed and growled, writhing to get away from the new source of pain and protect its sensitive eyes. Then, it turned in full to Anya and Jackie. Slowed by its obliterated leg, it began to spider-crawl towards them.

"Anya!" Jackie screamed, yanking on her godmother's arm.

Anya looked desperately to the child. "I can't just _leave_ him!"

The asphalt began to shake.

_  
Run, Anya. Don't be so stupid._

He could hear Anya's Snub shots, and Jackie's frantic cries. The Reaver was turning now, leaving him.

_No. No. Don't do this. I'm not fucking worth it. Run._

He could feel everything keenly now; thick waves of agony assaulted him, made his vision blurry. Warm blood coated his armour and the cement around him, keeping out the wintery chill. As he watched the Reaver step over the gas pumps, he wondered distantly if this is what Carlos had felt like.

_Anya..._

She slammed clip after clip into her gun, but it seemed to have no effect. She was alight with fear and anger; all she wanted to do was charge back and frag-tag the beast herself. But the Reaver was almost out of the station's front, and she knew she had a responsibility. Snatching Jackie's hand, she backed away, ready to run.

Then, there was a single gunshot; the two girls were staggered back as a fiery explosion consumed the Reaver. Pulpy bits and pieces went flying in all directions, and the monstrous roars were drowned out by the rushing of Imulsion-fueled flames.

Anya was stunned for only a moment, then she began to sprint back to the motionless body on the ground.

He had done it. Somehow, he had shot the gas pump under the Reaver and blown it straight to hell. He was down, and still, he'd saved them.

She just prayed that it wasn't too late to repay the favour.

Anya reached the face-down hero, a Boltok pistol held loosely in his hand, and fell to her knees beside him. She was horrified to find herself in a puddle of blood, and began to shake as she turned his heavy mass over.

He groaned, and Anya clapped a hand to her mouth. His entire left side, from his hip to his floating ribs, was a gory mess of twisted metal armour and shredded muscle. She realized, with a tiny gasp, that the Reaver's claw had actually shattered inside the wound; there were shards of fragmented claw lodged inside Marcus's blood-slicked flesh.

"Oh, God, Marcus..."

The sergeant coughed and looked up at Anya.

"You're okay." he growled weakly, as if anything less than that would have been unacceptable.

"We're fine, Marcus." Anya said breathlessly, pressing her hands to the injury in an attempt to staunch the blood. "But you..."

There was the sound of running footsteps, and Jackie appeared at Anya's side. Her face paled when she glimpsed the gaping wound; she slowly kneeled beside Marcus and tucked her hands under her chin.

"Is he...?" The child looked up at Anya, not wanting to finish her question. Anya set her face into a mask of grim determination.

"He's going to be fine." Her words were firm, but felt like they were being spoken by someone else. She held Marcus's wavering gaze. "Got that?"

He groaned. Anya took a deep breath. Her mind flew back to the medical training she'd received in Basic. She had to stop the bleeding first, but she couldn't do that while there were bits of Reaver claw in the wound. Remembering that they'd packed a basic med kit in their supplies, Anya kept one hand on the injury and rifled through one of their packs, eventually yanking out the familiar red metal case. Popping open the lid, she was confronted with a vast array of the various medical supplies; there were syringes, tourniquets, stitching wire, and wads of gauze. The wound was located on his torso, so the tourniquet was useless, but the gauze just might work. Hurrying, she grabbed all the gauze and looked to Jackie.

"Jacqueline, listen to me," she said evenly to the wide-eyed girl. "We need to stop the bleeding. In a few seconds, I'm going to pull the biggest pieces out of the cut, and you need to press the gauze to the wound as fast and as hard as you can, okay?"

Jackie looked uncertainly at the white cloth in Anya' outstretched hand. "Won't...won't that hurt him?"

"Yes, it will. But if you don't, then he'll bleed out, and I think that's far worse than a little hurting."

Hands trembling, Jackie took the gauze and hovered over Marcus's torn up side. His eyes were hooded now; Anya put her hand to his cheek and shook him gently.

"Stay with me, Marcus." she commanded in her most Helena-like voice. "If I have to go through with this, then so do you."

She received a grunt of response, and the lieutenant glanced at Jackie.

"Ready?"

The girl, face still the picture of fearful bewilderment, gave a shaky nod, and Anya put her hands on the largest of the jutting claws fragments.

"One. Two...Three."

In one fluid movement, Anya yanked out the shards, and Jackie practically leapt onto Marcus as she smothered the gushing wound with the gauze. The sergeant's cry of pain echoed through the empty street; the acrid scent of copper assaulted Anya's senses.

"Okay, okay..." Inhaling deeply again, Anya tossed the fragments and grabbed some tape from the med kit. Awkwardly, she taped the mass of bloody gauze to that it would stay wedged between Marcus's torn armour and his exposed muscle. When the makeshift dressing was secure, Jackie pulled her red-stained hands away and let them fall limply into her lap.

"W-what now?"

Anya touched Marcus's hand, willing him to stay awake.

"We need to get him somewhere he can rest. Somewhere safe." The lieutenant's eyes darted around the street, searching for a place to drag her sergeant. They would have to stay the night, if not for a couple of days, until Marcus could walk again. He was tough, she knew, but right now, he was down for the count.

"What about over there?" Jackie asked quietly, pointing towards a stable-looking restaurant. Not caring much about the particulars of where they stayed, Anya nodded and handed the med kit to her goddaughter.

"Take this," she said, then leaned over to face Marcus. His cyan eyes were glazed over, but he was still conscious.

"We're going to get you into that building over there, so just sit tight and..." Anya stopped short as she wondered how she was actually going to get all two hundred-fifty pounds of Marcus's bulk into the restaurant. There was no way he could walk; they'd have to somehow drag him.

"Jackie, help me get Marcus into the restaurant."

Metal med kit clutched to her chest, Jackie glanced warily at Marcus's huge body, then shuffled to join Anya by his side.

"Grab that shoulder plate..." Anya ordered, wrapping her cold fingers around the metal straps that held Marcus's armour together. "There...now pull, Jackie. Keep going. And mind the grenades..."

Together, the two girls managed to half-drag, half-carry the barely-there sergeant to the fancy, frosted glass doors of the restaurant. Anya cracked the doors open and peered inside, Snub probing the darkness.

It was a large, open space, with the majority of the hardwood floor filled up with chairs and tables. There was a high-counter bar littered with glasses and bottles to the left of the main floor, and a grandiose fireplace that graced the far right wall. Surprisingly, there was little evidence of the apocalyptic horrors the city had suffered outside, with most of the furniture and glassware relatively undisturbed.

"Looks clear." the lieutenant whispered. Working fast, they pulled Marcus inside and positioned the sergeant on the floor near the fireplace, ignoring his resulting grunts of pain. Immediately, Anya dropped to Marcus's side and pressed a hand to the reddening gauze.

"Alright...okay. Jackie? Bring me the med kit, please."

The youth obediently dropped the kit at Anya's feet. Anya popped open the case, then looked up at Jackie. Her goddaughter was blank-faced, her eyes wide, and her shoulders still quavering ever-so-slightly. Anya remembered Marcus's foolproof calm-down tactics, and glanced about the elegant restaurant.

"Jacqueline, I'd like you to start moving these tables around. Barricade the doors and windows, please." The lieutenant managed to scrap up a small smile for the girl, and her head bobbed in a tiny nod before she rushed off to carry out Anya's request.

With the young one taken care of, Anya returned her attention to her ailing sergeant. To her surprise, he had woken up a bit, but his jaw was still clenched; the unmistakable sign of suppressed agony. Eyelids flickering slightly, he gazed up at Anya.

"How...agh...how bad?"

Anya frowned. "I...I don't know. Here, let me see..."

Working her gloved fingers as gently as she could, she felt around the edge of the taped gauze, trying to feel out the extent of the injury. The razor-sharp Reaver claw had ripped right through Marcus's armour, slicing through the thick metal plating, down through his chainmail under-armour, and into the flesh that lay beneath. But other than that, Anya couldn't divine anything else about the damage.

"Marcus, we have to get you out of your armour."

The soldier screwed his eyes shut, as if surrendering. "Whatever you gotta do."

Anya's lips pressed into a thin line, and she reached around to Marcus's sides. She began with the plating on his arms, unclipping the straps that held the protective metal tight to his chainmailed muscles. The armour clattered to the floor; she set to work freeing Marcus's torso from the main plating. Within seconds, her hands had found all of the numerous clips and buckles, and she carefully pulled the casing, as well as the gauze taping, away from his injured body. She ensured the actual gauze was still in place--the last thing she wanted was to start the flood of blood flow again.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she marveled distantly about how _big_ his tightly muscled body was, even without the armour. But then she reminded herself that she had a life to save, and focused on the task at hand. All that remained between her and the wound was the chainmail bodysuit; the lieutenant reached for the zipper that ran horizontally along Marcus's collarbone then down his right side, but stopped short and lifted her eyes to him.

But he was off in his own world, fending off waves of pain, barely even paying attention to her.

_Of course he's not paying attention. You're not a schoolgirl; don't get all shy now._

Refocusing once again, the woman unzipped the under-armour and peeled it back over the sergeant's shoulders, chest, and abdomen, revealing the scarred skin and heavy muscles underneath. Slowly, she removed the gauze.

The bleeding had slowed, thank God, and without all the ripped armour obscuring her view, Anya could clearly see the damage that had been done. The sergeant's left oblique was slit from hip to rib, but a moment's scrutiny made Anya realize that it wasn't as bad as she'd initially thought. Before, with all the blood and broken armour, the wound had looked ragged and nasty, but it turned out that the claw's sharpness had been a good thing; the injury was--luckily--just a series of clean lacerations. Anya also concluded that the blow must have been glancing, because the slashes, while broad, went no deeper than the muscle. The lieutenant touched the edge of the torn flesh, and Marcus inhaled sharply, the naked muscles of his stomach tightening beneath her hand.

Of course, just because the wound wasn't going to kill him, didn't mean that it didn't smart like a bitch.

"You must have a guardian angel, Marcus," Anya rummaged around in the med kit, head shaking in mild disbelief. "Because you somehow managed to avoid cutting up anything important."

The sergeant let his head fall back to the mahogany floor. "Doesn't feel like it."

"Well, you _are_ practically skinned on your whole left side..." Anya finally found what she was looking for--a curved needle and spool of suture thread--and pulled it out.

Marcus locked a sideways stare onto the tools.

"You know how to suture?"

His gruff tone told her that it was more a prompt for reassurance than a real question. She threaded the needle and brought it to bear.

"My mother taught me how to sew."

Despite his pain, Marcus shot her his _you've-got-to-be-shitting-me_ stare.

"You're going to _knit_ me back together."

Anya closed her eyes and pursed her lips, then turned and pointed to Jackie, who was still busy dragging as many tables as she could against the front doors.

"See that scarf?" Anya said with superhuman patience. "_That_ is knitting. This---" She held the gleaming needle in full view. "---Is stitching. Now please shut up."

Evidently defeated, the man shut his eyes and reclined fully on the floor, hands balled into fists at his sides. Anya leaned forward, about to make the first stitch, then suddenly thought of something.

"Jackie." The lieutenant craned her neck around. "Could you find me a bottle of alcohol?"

The girl stacked a final chair onto her barricade and spun around.

"...Where?"

"Try the bar."

Marcus cracked his eyes slightly.

"Yes, Marcus." Anya answered his unspoken question. "For you."

Jackie was quick to obey Anya's command, and she soon appeared at Anya's side with an open bottle of vodka in her little hands.

Anya took the thick-glassed bottle from Jackie and twisted out the cork with a dull _pop_. "You're favourite." she said as she offered the booze to Marcus, who gripped it and washed back several mouthfuls.

"Great." Anya was quick to snatch the bottle from the sergeant's weakened grasp. "Now, try not to scream."

Marcus didn't even get a chance to inquire before Anya tipped the bottle over his open wound and allowed the alcohol to slosh over the shredded sinews.

The sergeant slammed his fists into the wooden floorboards and growled through clenched teeth as vodka and blood mixed together and pooled beneath him. Anya set the bottle back by the med kit and leaned forward, crescent-moon needle in hand. She had to close the wound up now, before it could get infected and make things just that much worse. The lieutenant was about to put needle to skin before she remembered that she had an eleven-year-old girl standing over her shoulder. The girl was scarred enough; she didn't need to watch a man get laced up like a shoe on top of it all.

"Jackie, how's that barrier coming?"

Anya didn't get an articulate response, but by the way the youth whirled and left, eyes glazed, Anya could tell that Jackie didn't have an aversion to sitting this one out.

The woman turned back to the wound and, crystalline eyes hardened with determination, finally pushed the needle into the skin and made the first knot.

*** * * * * * * ***

Sweat dropped off her brow; she pulled one bloody hand from her work to brush a stray golden hair out of her eyes.

The whole of Marcus's side looked like the laced front of a combat boot, with the slender gashes almost completely sewn up with the stitching thread. It wouldn't win any medical awards, and Anya was sure that the doctors back in Belphe would have a conniption fit when they saw her amateur suture, but it would do the job until they could get the man to a real hospital.

But even as she stitched him up, Anya knew that Marcus was not in a good place. For the entirety of the past two hours, the sergeant had remained silent and motionless on the floor, eyes screwed shut. The only signs of life were the twitching of his jaw and the erratic rise and fall of his chest as his lungs wrung out jerky breaths. Every fifteen minutes or so, Anya would look up from the stitches to tentatively ask him how he was holding up. He'd manage a mildly reassuring grunt, then retreat back into whatever trance he'd created to combat the pain.

Anya wished she could work faster. Her medical training, as well as her supplies, was extremely limited, and while she'd been sewing as fast as she could, she was still taking far too long. Jackie had helped Anya strike a small fire in the ornate fireplace, then, frazzled from the chaos of her first day of rescue, curled up in a cushy waiting chair and fallen asleep. Smoky rays of setting sunlight filtered through the windows of the restaurant, reminding Anya that time was still passing, and that it would not be long before she would have to get ready for an all-night watch duty. Marcus had to be closed up by then, or else Anya ran the risk of being caught unawares by an attack in the middle of the night.

Her back ached, and her knees were numb from kneeling at the sergeant's side for so long, but she knew she had to pick up the pace. The woman pushed the diabolical shred of pointed iron through Marcus's torn skin one more time, but her stiff fingers slipped and grazed the raw muscle inside the red trench of the wound. Marcus hissed through his teeth, and Anya quickly withdrew her offending hand.

"God, Marcus, I'm sorry..."

She stared at him, brows knitted with concern. His skin, slick with beads of fevered sweat, gleamed in the fading sunlight and the glow of the fire. His veins throbbed as they worked overtime to make up for lost blood; every muscle, every _sinew_ in his body was tight as a drum. She'd forced almost a full bottle of vodka down his throat, but it only wore so much of the edge off--he needed a real sedative.

She found herself wishing that he would just pass out already. His pain threshold was mercilessly high, and while his body was being pushed well past its limits, it would not allow him the luxury of blissful unconsciousness. He was, literally, too damn tough for his own good.

Her stiff fingers went back to stitching. Other than the occasional grunt from Marcus, the restaurant was almost entirely silent; this gave Anya the uncomfortably convenient opportunity to think about things. There was a lot racing through her mind--_is Marcus going to be okay? How are we going to get to Delta now? Are we going get through the night alone? What's happening back in Belphe?_--but there was something that, at the moment, dominated all else.

"Marcus?" Anya called quietly, not holding out much hope for a response.

"Marcus...I'm so sorry."

He didn't say anything. He probably couldn't even hear her--for all she knew, she was talking to herself. But she had to get this off her chest and off her conscience, even if it was to a partially drunk, nigh-unconscious audience.

"I didn't mean to say the things I did to you. I know that doesn't mean anything, but it...I was so wrong. I don't know why I snapped like that. You didn't deserve it. I mean, you...you've done so much for me. For us. Hell, you practically carried me across this city for Jackie. And I thank you by biting your head off...No, worse than that. And now...and now with this...if something worse had happened..."

She trailed off, forced to fight off an unforeseen wave of emotion that had risen up inside her.

"I wouldn't want that to be the last thing said between us."

Her voice sounded oddly loud inside the empty space of the restaurant, and when she finished speaking, her words seemed to plummet to the wooden floor with a near-audible leaden thud. Marcus showed no signs of having heard her; she inhaled slowly through her nose and bent her head over her steadily working hands.

"I'm terrified, Marcus." Her voice fell as soft as a cat's footfalls. "The world is ending, and now I have a kid...You were right; how can I possibly give Jacqueline the life she deserves? I just...I..."

Anya couldn't even give words to the uncertainty that gripped her. She felt as though she was trapped by the encroaching instability that threatened to swallow up the whole world right now. She was tired, hungry, and hurt; all this and more pressed in on her, and she found herself suppressing the tears that stung in the back of her throat.

Then, the muscles below her fingers shifted, and she felt a comforting warmth touch her hand. She looked up; Marcus was gazing at her, his eyes reduced to cat-like slits, and his hand was resting weakly over hers, his enormous, calloused fingers curling weakly around her smaller, delicate ones.

"Anya...we're all scared." he whispered hoarsely. "It's alright."

At first, she was stunned by the sergeant's gentle outreach, but then she remembered who she was dealing with. On the outside, Marcus was brutal and gruff, but ever since the battle of Aspho Fields, when so much was lost by so many, Anya had known that, beneath all the scars, there was a less severe man. And then, just to still her inexplicably racing heart, Anya firmly reminded herself that the sergeant was probably drunk from the special mix of vodka and white hot agony.

Perhaps it _was_ that pain and alcohol, but for some reason, Marcus did not loosen his grasp on Anya. Brows raised, the lieutenant scanned his grimacing face--she saw that he was barely staying with her.

And then a breathless groan escaped his lips, and the hand on Anya's went limp.

"Marcus?" Anya whispered, her heart instantly in her throat. Did she overlook something before? Had a shard of claw been embedded in something more critical than just muscle? Her mind and heart raced as she curled her fingers around his hand. It was cold and clammy.

"Marcus? Oh, please, no. Can you hear me? _Marcus._"

There was panic in her voice, but she didn't care. Leaning over his prone form, she pressed a shaking hand to his neck.

She was met with the faint, but steady, rhythm of a pulse.

The woman almost collapsed on top of him, so massive was her relief. She placed her palms flat against the wooden floorboards and let her head hang low. So the pain had finally proven too great for Marcus Fenix, and he'd passed out. Anya was happy for him; now she could finish his stitch job without driving him mad.

Resting back on her haunches, Anya smoothed her hair back out of her eyes and took a deep breath. Once she'd steadied herself, she reached for the dropped needle.

Just a couple more stitches, and then the all-night watch--Anya's second in a row--would begin.

*** * * * * * * ***

_Ten Years After E-Day_

_Her hands were trembling._

_That made her angry. Why was she so damn fragile? She needed to be strong--_he_ needed her to be strong--and here she was, barely even able to press the button on the remote. Why was this affecting her like this?_

Because you don't know what you're going to do without him.

_She shook her head, pushing the thought away. Even her mind was messed up right now. Her eyes darted around her small apartment, searching for a visual distraction, and her gaze finally fell on the green digits on the alarm clock on the side table._

_Five minutes after five. She swore silently; she was late. Forcing her hands to function, she pressed the power button on the remote and pulled her knees up on the couch._

_The television was already set to the channel she needed: Ephyra City Watch. It was the only thing she watched anymore, partially because, since E-Day, it was one of the only surviving broadcasts, but also because the news they'd been covering for the last week was all too critical for her. The screen was filled with the stark image of a hollow-cheeked woman sitting at a desk in a cold news room. Hovering over the woman's shoulder was a graphic design of a pair of handcuffs superimposed on the Crimson Omen--the grim symbol of the COG's army forces._

_"---unsure about the outcome." the woman finished the broken sentence just as the television tuned in. "Either way, today will be a defining day for the Gears of the city: after many long hours in court-martial, we have been told that the panel of officers is now coming to their verdict for the trial of Corporal Marcus Fenix."_

_In her apartment, the woman gave an involuntary shudder and turned up the volume on the old television._

_"Twelve years ago, Fenix was awarded the Embry Star--the highest honour for a Gear--for his exceptional performance in the pivotal battle now known as Aspho Fields. So, the city was shocked when the celebrated war veteran, now thirty-one, was arrested for being AWOL during the close-to-home battle in the East Barricade Academy. Our field reporter and corresponding attorney-at-law, Travis Langel, is on scene at the Ephyra High Court of Justice to discuss the charges, as well as the pending decision of the Court. Travis?"_

_The screen blinked, then opened up to a tall, lanky man standing on the steps of an extravagant, yet hard-looking building. He nodded politely and brought his grey mic up to the thin line of his mouth._

_"Thanks, Vivian. Despite the cloud-covered sky and the inevitable rain, the air here can only be described as electric. Since eight o'clock this morning, the panel has been working through the controversial charges laid against Corporal Fenix. The jury seems to have reached their verdict, and so we can only wait until they release it to the public."_

_At this, the screen switched to the familiar split-screen, with Vivian's face floating in a box on the left, and Travis's in the right. Vivian's gaunt visage contorted into a mask of feigned concern._

_"So, Travis, everyone knows that the corporal was charged with dereliction of duty and failing to obey orders, but that charge has since escalated to the far more serious charge of treason. Could you explain that in laymen's terms, and what it will mean for Fenix?"_

_There was the obligatory pause in communication before the message was relayed to Travis. Again, he nodded, then began to recite, like a professor reading from a dusty old textbook, the legal complexities that the Corporal faced._

_At home, curled up on her couch, the woman closed her blue eyes. She knew all too well what Marcus faced. For the past few weeks, words like 'treason' and 'trial' had become a part of her daily vocabulary, and were coming to shape her life._

_AWOL. Away without leave; abandoning your post when you were needed. It was a crime of cowardice, and the minimum sentence was ten years. But that wasn't even the worst of it: in addition to the dereliction of duty charge, Colonel Hoffman had decided to press treason charges._

_If there was anything the COG hated more than a coward, it was a traitor. If the jury found Marcus guilty, he would be executed--sentenced to death by lethal injection._

_She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. That wouldn't happen; he had the public on his side, and Dom was going to testify in his favour. There was evidence, and witnesses. No, it wouldn't happen. It _couldn't_ happen..._

_"Now, it's been reported that Fenix feels his premature departure from his post was necessary, even though his actions cost the COG to lose much of the East Quarter, as well as many soldiers. What's the word on that?"_

_"Well, Vivian, as you know, the law is very complicated, but Fenix has claimed that his desertion was to save his father, renowned scientist Adam Fenix. According to Marcus Fenix and his witness, Dominic Santiago, Adam Fenix sent his son an SOS, which then prompted the corporal to abandon his post in an attempt to rescue his father. Sadly, Adam Fenix, who had been attacked during a Locust raid on his laboratory, was dead before his son could reach him."_

_Vivian, patiently listening the whole time, raised her over-plucked brows. "That sounds like a heartbreaking story, but does the panel believe it?"_

_Back in her apartment, the woman dug her nails into the soft fabric of the couch._

That bitch._ How could she say that, as if Marcus just made the whole thing up? How could she possibly know what it is to lose a parent like that? To have their blood on your helpless hands?_

_"We won't know exactly what the jury thinks until the verdict is released..." Someone off-camera murmured something indistinct to Travis, and he offered them his trademark nod before turning back to the camera._

_"And that might come sooner than you think, Vivian: I've just been informed that the members of the court-martial are leaving the building..."_

_The reporter turned around to face the building behind him just as a small group of neat-looking men and women in trim suits emerged from the gilded double doors. A mob of press and reporters swarmed the wide stairs below the group, and the camera zoomed in on the faces of the people._

_She saw him, and her heart began to hammer against her ribs. He looked terrible; his hair, free from his bandana, was plastered to his head with sweat, and the orange cloth of his prison coveralls was stretched tight over his tense muscles. His arms were pulled back and handcuffed; behind him, two massive law enforcers had a firm grip on each of his shoulders._

_How dare they? She scathed inwardly. How dare they treat him like a common criminal? He was so much more of a man than they could ever hope to be--hell, he was a fucking hero. They called him a coward, but he took bullet after bullet so that they didn't have to, so that their _kids_ didn't have to. And how did they repay him? By chaining him up like a dog and throwing him to the rabid media._

_The press were yipping and barking at the members of the panel, demanding to know Fenix's fate. She gazed at his tired face, searching for some kind of hint as to what the verdict had been, but as always, his hard features gave nothing away._

_A man in a sharp black suit stepped out from the group atop the stairs. The field of medals on his chest glinted as he held out his hand to quiet the bloodthirsty crowd. Once they had silenced their nattering and extended their mics and recorders desperately out to him, the man clasped his hands delicately in front of him and spoke._

_"After much discussion and heated debate," he sang. "We, the jury, have found Corporal Marcus Fenix guilty of desertion, cowardice, and treason."_

_Her heart literally stopped. It was like everything had suddenly turned to lead. That was it. He was guilty. They had ignored the evidence and nailed him with everything. Bastards. _Marcus was going to die.

_"However," The man's voice cut through the responding din from the crowd. "Upon reviewing Corporal Fenix's two exemplary tours of duty, the jury has elected to forgo the death penalty. Instead, Fenix will serve a minimum sentence of forty years, without parole, in the Jacinto Maximum Security Prison."_

_Travis--weedy, smarmy Travis--turned to the camera and began chatting excitedly to Vivian as if he'd just heard that his favourite Thrashball team had scored._

_The woman couldn't hear the television anymore. Her blood was crashing in her ears, and tears burned in the back of her throat._

_Forty years. It might as well have been a life sentence; the prison would probably be overrun by the Locust before he saw the sun again. Hell, all of mankind might be extinct by them. He would be trapped in his tiny cell, listening as the Wretches clattered through the vents just above his head; nowhere to go, no way to fight back._

Shit, Marcus, shit...

_Through blurry eyes, she watched as the camera hobbled alongside the members of the court, Marcus trudging along with them. In an instant, he turned to look at the camera, and she felt his piercing blue eyes bore right through her._

_The men behind him grabbed his arms, and he was forced away into an armoured vehicle._

_Her hands were numb. Unfeeling, she turned off the television. Outside, the rain spattered gently against the window panes. She sank back into the couch, and reached for the sacred object she'd placed so carefully on the cushion beside her._

_Clutching the worn fabric for all it was worth, the woman began to cry silently into the bandana that he'd asked her to keep safe._

_

* * *

_

Hyper's first Post-Script AN!  
So...Drama Llama, eh? But seriously, I'm actually pretty nervy about this chapter. It focuses on two things I'm never happy with: Serious physical injury and delicate Gears canon. So if there was ever a time to give me your opinions on how I can improve, this would be it!


	11. A Rare Resilience

Once upon a time, this chapter was deemed satisfactory. Now? Not so much. I'd re-write the whole thing, but lately, Real Life has been all up in my kool-aid and harshing my mellow, so to speak, and I'm just wanting to get on in the story.  
I don't know why, but I _just._ _Can't. Seem. To get it. Right_...All I can do is promise that there is a light at the end of the proverbial tunnel.  
But, as always, concrit is welcomed with great enthusiasm! And also as always:_ Enjoy._

**Chapter Ten: A Rare Resilience**

"...We're fine. It's Marcus I'm worried about...Yes, his side...Neither did I, but I guess they're fully capable of it. Look, Dom, I've done everything I can, but those stitches won't last forever..."

His head hurt. In fact, there wasn't much that _didn't_ hurt. He attempted to rub his eyes, then discovered that his body was oddly unresponsive.

"...Yes, completely....My God, you're not even listening to me! He's been out cold all day."

He was distantly aware of a gentle heat beside him, and a quiet crackling. He was laying down on something flat, but he felt like he was bobbing up and down in the ocean. Somewhere behind his head, a familiar voice spoke in intermittent bursts.

"No...Well, can you find some gas for it?...Alright...Yes, we'll wait right here...You too, Dom. Stroud out."

_Anya_. For some strange reason, his whole left side burned at the mere thought of her. He shifted slightly to alleviate the dull pain, but was instead was met with a wave of searing agony.

"Auntie...come quick." A second voice--a child's--sounded surprisingly close to him. "He's groaning a lot. I think...I think he's awake..."

"What? Is he okay?"

Scuffling from behind him, followed by a series of hurried footsteps.

"Marcus?" Anya's voice now, breathless and...frightened?

"Marcus, can you hear me?"

He tried to speak, but could only force a low rumble out of his parched throat. God _damn_, he was hurting.

"Thank God, he's awake. Jackie, go grab some water out of that pack...oh, and bring me that bucket I found earlier."

_Bucket? _He needed morphine, not a bucket. He tried to move his hand to his aching flesh on his side, and was pleased when it actually did what it was told.

"Oh no, don't you dare touch that." He received a brisk smack on the hand. "Here, can you open your eyes?"

He groaned again. His eyelids felt like they were made of welded lead. But Nurse Anya wanted him to open his eyes, so he gave it a shot.

The horizontal curtains of darkness opened up to reveal a wall of soft orange blur. He blinked--labouriously--and the blur coalesced into a beautifully familiar face. A smile spread over her lips, and her eyes shone in what he realized was firelight.

"Evening, Sergeant." She spoke quietly, as if the tender tone of her voice miraculously relieved some of his pain. It didn't.

He turned his head groggily towards the firelight, wincing. He was on the floor; hazily, he remembered being dragged here, to the foot of this massive fireplace. His cotton-filled mind strained, as if it had more recollections it was trying to shake out. His headache was getting worse now that his brain had to deal with all this visual input shit; he decided to screw his eyes shut and hope it would all go away soon.

"Holy shit." he moaned. Or rather, meant to moan; all that came out of his sandpapered mouth was an animal-like gurgle.

"Please, Marcus, you're going to tear your throat. Just hold on."

An instant later, there was a pattering of small boots on wooden boards, and he felt someone appear beside him.

"Here...here you go, Auntie."

"Thanks, Jacks. You can go sit down now."

"But I---"

"Jacqueline, trust me. You don't want to be here in a few moments."

Inexplicable dread welled up in his chest. Footsteps trailed away from him, and then there was something cold at his lips.

"Drink."

Having learned to follow Nurse Anya's orders, he parted his cracked lips and almost choked on the cool water that trickled down his throat. It felt good, and for a moment, it almost took the edge off the agony in his side.

"Better?"

He swallowed the last of the water and opened his bleary eyes.

"Mhm."

Anya smiled again and took the empty water bottle from his lips. "Alright, now, as long as we can---"

Suddenly, like a bolt out of the fucking blue, nausea, thick and heavy, rose in the pit of his gut. He instinctively surged up, practically bowling Anya over, and rolled onto his front. Mercifully, a bucket was thrust in front of him, and he proceeded to empty the contents of his already-starved stomach into it. Of course, the instant his abdominal muscles heaved, the pain quadrupled, and white hot lightning ripped through him.

"Okay, okay...Just breathe, you'll be fine..." Half-formed sentences of comfort streamed from beside him, and he was vaguely aware of steady hands on his screaming side and chest.

At last, after what seemed like eternity, his body stopped trying to kill him; the heaves stopped, the cloud of nausea lifted, and he collapsed onto his stomach with his elbows propped up and his head hanging limply just inches from the floor.

"_Fuck!_" he half-yelled, half-growled as the pain in his muscles slowly ebbed away.

"I know. I'm so sorry, Marcus." Anya, the saint, still had her arms around him, practically holding him up. He gulped down a massive breath.

"...What are you doing...?"

"Holding your internal organs in." came the muffled response. Marcus sincerely hoped she was joking. He felt a hand graze down the axis of his agony, stopping every so often to press the skin gently.

"Shit, you ripped a couple stitches." she breathed, more to herself than anyone else. With a strength Marcus hadn't thought her capable of, the lieutenant somehow eased him onto his side, and rolled up her blood-stained sleeves. The woman then procured a needle and thread seemingly out of nowhere and set to work. He felt almost nothing as the needle began to dive in and out of his torn skin, likely because the tiny pinpricks were nothing compared to the massive pain he'd just endured and, somehow, survived.

"What the _hell_ did you do to me?" he groaned miserably, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. Anya just raised her slender brows at him and nodded towards something on the floor near the fireplace. Following her gesture, Marcus saw that it was a bottle of vodka, bone dry.

He moaned. "This is a _hangover_?" he asked, his voice dripping with resentment. That would explain the headache.

"Perhaps if you hadn't insisted on fidgeting every time I tried to stitch you, the need to liquor you up would not have arisen."

Marcus looked up at Anya then, really seeing her for the first time since he'd passed out. As badly as he was doing, she wasn't looking so hot either. Her hair was released from its vice-like bun, and though it appeared that she'd taken measures to finger-comb it out, it was still stained with blood. Both her temple and her neck were covered in scabs and scrapes. The heavy work and poor-man's diet was taking its toll on her appearance; her face looked hollow, and the contours of her body didn't fill out her light armour like it used to. It wasn't obvious, but he knew she needed to get home just as badly as he did.

Then, as he watched her work in the light of the flickering fire, darkness flowing just beyond its reddened glow, he realized something.

"What time is it?"

Anya glanced down at a tiny glowing screen on her arm plating. "Couple minutes after midnight."

The sergeant stared at her.

"You slept all night and all day." Anya sighed.

"Shit..."

In that moment, he felt something that was worse than the pain; he was useless. No, even worse than that: he was a _burden_. They'd had to hold the fort for God knew how long while he just slept the precious hours away. Anya was the only able adult; she'd probably been living off of Xanthine just to keep a proper watch. Not to mention how much ground they'd lost in their bid to meet up with the rest of Delta...

But she _had_ spoken to Dom. The sergeant's mind slowed down to process this tangle of information properly; yes, he'd heard Anya as she reached Dom via tac-com. Maybe there was some shred of light at the end of the tunnel, after all.

"Anya." Marcus said, making the woman look up from tying off the last of the sutures. "You got to Dom."

She nodded. "Took me all day to find a signal strong enough in here, but yes, I managed to contact him."

"And?"

"Well, they're having some issues with fuel," Anya began as she glanced over Marcus's newly sewn wound. "But once Dom heard you were down for the count...well, you know him. He promised to be here by dawn."

Marcus snorted, then winced at the resulting twinge of pain. Yes, that certainly sounded like Dominic Santiago. But deep down, Marcus was just glad that it was almost over. Soon, Anya and Jackie would be safe, and he could _sleep_. Oh sure, he would get around to dealing with the end of the world. Later.

He heaved a sigh, then heard a tiny cough. Looking over to his side, he saw that Anya was still kneeling, fidgeting with her hands like she wasn't sure what to do with them.

"Anya?"

She flinched slightly and glanced up at him with those baby blue eyes. There was a uneasy seriousness about them that made Marcus furrow his brows ever so slightly.

"What do you remember about last night?"

Marcus blinked. The question, already laden with an inherent awkwardness, took him by surprise. He shifted his position on the floor to get a better look at his lieutenant.

"What, _other_ than getting fucked six ways to Sunday by a Reaver?" Marcus growled. Then he saw Anya's resulting expression, and he snorted. "Well, you dragged me here...stitched me up..." He closed his eyes. His memory became fuzzy at that point. "And then you went a little overboard with the booze..."

However, the woman's concerned expression did not dissipate as Marcus had expected.

"But that's all you remember?" she continued. "Nothing else?"

This time, Marcus did not attempt to recall the night before; he just cocked a brow at Anya.

"I passed out." he said. "That's it."

"Oh." Anya seemed almost relieved at his response.

The sergeant's brow gave a questioning twitch, but she just looked down at her twiddling fingers.

"I...um...I just..." She stopped herself and took a deep breath.

"I'm going to take care of this." the woman said at last, gesturing to the bucket. "Um...there's some Xanthine in that pack over there. Call if you need me."

Marcus could only watch as she hoisted herself up off her knees, grabbed the bucket, and then hurried out of his field of vision. He didn't know what happened in the night before to make her so skittish, but he hoped it wasn't anything too drastic. The two of them were stressed enough as it was--hell, a fight had already broken out between them--and the last thing they needed was a scrap of late-night drama driving them further apart.

Dull fire burned along his side and up into his brain: Marcus's body's way of telling him that serious thinking was not on tonight's agenda, and that he should start popping those Xanthine pills. The man's eyes fell on the pack Anya had motioned to, and within seconds, he was gulping down a small handful of the drug.

He leaned back on the wooden floor, waiting for the painkillers to take effect. It was silent, apart from the crackling of the fire and his own irregular breathing.

_And apart from the quiet sniffling in the corner._

Marcus hadn't noticed it before, but now he heard it clearly: a soft snuffling noise emanating from the place where Jackie had disappeared to. He knew exactly what it was, too; the sound of a young child trying to cry without drawing attention to themselves.

He propped himself up on his elbows. The crying was coming from a red lounge chair, its wing-back turned to him. Marcus did a quick visual survey of the restaurant interior, but could find no trace of Anya. The crying went on.

"...Jackie."

The sniffling halted.

"Jackie." the sergeant tried again. He waited a few moments, scarcely breathing for fear that he wouldn't hear her reply.

Finally, the chair creaked.

"Wh-what...?"

Marcus inhaled slowly. Shit, what the hell was he supposed to say to this kid? 'Stiff upper lip'? 'Buck up, kiddo'? 'Hey, I know things look shitty now, but really, it's only half as shitty back in Belphe'?

Ultimately, he decided on something a little gentler.

"What's up?"

Silence, broken by a few stifled hiccoughs.

"N-nothing."

_See? She said it herself. It's nothing_. Yet...as much as the sergeant wanted to leave it at that, he felt a tiny tug at his conscience.

"I'm not convinced."

At this, the fabric of the chair creaked again, and a tiny, tear-streaked face appeared around the side.

He searched her reddened features; her discoloured eyes, bloodshot and puffy, were staring right into him. He could see they were pleading for help.

Marcus had dealt with distraught young ones before. Anyone in the Santiago family would attest that he'd been like an uncle to Dom's two children, Benedicto and Sylvia. As a soldier, he had even worked with dozens of civilian children on rescue missions and the like. But those kids had been easy to pacify; when Marcus hadn't pawned off kid-control to fatherly Dom, he'd just tell them they'd be safe soon, and they were fine. As for Benedicto and Sylvia, they'd been so young that, when they started wailing, all they really wanted was to be fed or held.

Jackie was a completely different matter. The eleven-year-old was more than capable of having complex emotions--and thus, complex emotional problems. Which, as proven by her desperate expression, she had quite a few of.

And she was looking to _him_.

"C'mere, kid."

He leaned so that his back was up against the nearby pile of supply packs, and he nodded towards the floorboards beside him. The young girl looked from the floor to Marcus, hesitating. Then, she seemed to understand the hand he was extending to her. She gingerly pulled herself from the chair and came to kneel at the soldier's side, sniffling quietly.

"What's wrong?" he asked at length. Jackie, so much like Anya in her body language, put her hands in her lap and glared intently at them.

"Nothing." she insisted again, but Marcus could see the tears welling up at the corners of her eyes. Perhaps he should have said something--put a caring arm around her and told her everything was going to be okay--but he opted to stay quiet and let Jackie come to terms with her own emotions. He knew that humans had the wondrous ability to figure most things out on their own, as long as they had someone there to listen.

The youth let out a couple of hitched breaths. "It's not...nothing happened...I just...I just..."

_You've just watched your city sink, lost one of your steadily dwindling guardians, spent three days alone in your Wretch-infested house, and watched me get sliced in half and sewn back together. Yeah, sure kiddo. Nothing at all._

A tear rolled down the child's face, and she furiously wiped it away.

"I...I don't know why I'm crying!"

Marcus had to bite back an incredulous snort. The poor girl was actually _angry_ with herself for crying. Instantly, he picked it out as the lowest level of grieving; when you were so upset, that you couldn't even say what was tearing you apart. Marcus pitied Jackie; she couldn't give her pain a name, so she took it all on herself.

On second thought, maybe he could believe it after all.

"I shouldn't...I shouldn't be crying. Auntie Anya said she needed me to be strong. I..I _have_ to be..."

The fragile wall Jackie had built up came crashing down, and she began sobbing uncontrollably.

_Ah, shit._

Marcus opened his mouth to speak, but closed it when he realized that just telling Jackie she was being unreasonable wasn't going to work. She wasn't a recruit: he couldn't just _order_ her to get happy. Growing steadily aware of his ineffectiveness, the sergeant grasped for a new angle. He thought back to his own life; as a child, he'd been in the exact same position before--hell, he'd been in that position as grown man...

"Jackie." the sergeant tried, then winced as the child's sobbing only intensified. _Oh yeah, great job, Mister Mom._ "...Jackie, listen."

The girl staunched the flow of her tears just long enough to stare up at Marcus with glassy eyes.

This was his chance."Look. No one can be strong all the time."

"But...Auntie said that I have to be---"

"You have been." Marcus said firmly. Even then, Jackie looked far from convinced.

Holding back the urge to swear at the girl's stubborness, Marcus stayed the course. "Kiddo." he made a third attempt. For some reason, that got her attention more than her actual name did.

Lips pressed together, the youth found the will to stare up at the soldier. Hesitating for only a moment, he placed a huge hand on one of her tiny shaking shoulders.

"Everyone cries." he said simply.

At this, the child shot him an incredulous stare, as if she were shocked that he'd even attempt to utilize such a sweepingly generic greeting-card sentiment to console her. Her next words were quiet and cautious.

"Even you?"

He leaned back, his eyes rising to study the ceiling.

"Everyone." he repeated. The child's delicate features contorted in innocent surprise.

But to Marcus's relief, Jackie seemed calmed by his words; her little frame stopped shuddering, and her residual sobs subsided into hiccoughs.

There was a long moment of fire-crackling quietness as Jackie steadied herself. Eventually, she managed a smile for Marcus.

"Th-thank you." she offered gently. The bright little girl could probably guess that he was way out of his element here.

"...No worries, kiddo."

Marcus reclined back against the supply packs and stretched one arm behind his neck. He found that his eyelids were suddenly heavy, and he let them slide shut. He couldn't ignore the fact that he was virtually recovering from surgery, and even just the short time he'd been conscious had drained him. He would just rest his eyes for a moment, let Jackie go do her own thing, then maybe call and see what Anya was up to...

There was a soft scuffling from the place where he knew Jackie was kneeling, and then a slight weight pressed down on his side, causing tendrils of pain to shoot through his instantly stiff muscles. His eyes flew open, and he looked down.

Perhaps also emotionally and physically drained, Jackie had curled up beside the sergeant, her head nestled beneath his arm and her eyes gazing off into space.

Marcus just stared, dumbfounded, at the youth. He had it on good authority from a multitude of reliable sources that he did _not_ give off a particularly cuddly vibe. He couldn't imagine why Jackie--or any other sensible human being--would even _want_ to sidle up to his hulking, scarred, perma-glaring self. For a moment, the soldier had no idea what to do.

Yet, somehow, Jackie must have known that she herself was out on a very unsteady limb, too. She was wound up tight as a spring, as if she was ready to scramble away at the first sign of trouble from the sergeant.

But he didn't move, and she stayed. In that moment, Marcus realized what Jackie needed: what Anya couldn't give her, what he himself had needed so desperately as a child.

"Am I hurting you?" The child's muffled voice was barely audible above the quiet roar of the fireplace.

Marcus experimentally flexed the tense muscles of his stomach. Jackie's weight pulled ever-so-slightly on the edges of his healing wound, sending little twinges of dull ache up through the skin. He sighed.

"Nah...you're fine."

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	12. Bright End Of Nowhere

Well, I've done my fair share of late updates, so I figured I'd switch it up a little and throw out an early(ish) one. You know, just to keep you lot on your toes. (But mostly because this chapter isn't long enough to excuse a long wait.)

Well, _surprise surprise_. I'm actually kind of digging on this chapter. It did what it was told; for this, I am grateful. That said, I hope things aren't getting too sleepy. This little lull in the Crazy Heart Pumping Action (tm) wasn't supposed to last over so many chapters.  
But you know the drill: Enjoy, and share your opinions if you feel so inclined.

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**Chapter Eleven: Bright End Of Nowhere**

At approximately five o'clock after midnight, Anya stared at the two metal cases laying empty on the floor, and decided that Xanthine was simultaneously the best and worse medicinal invention of mankind.

At its best, the miraculous little pill--or a handful of them, rather--had allowed her to hold a tenuous grasp on consciousness for well over seventy-two hours. Because of this, she was able to keep a safe watch over both Marcus and Jackie for her second consecutive nightwatch. Another bonus: the pills' painkilling abilities took the edge off of the stinging scrapes and cuts she'd manage to accumulate over the past few days.

However, Xanthine had a dark side. She'd been awake for three straight days; Anya felt like her brain had grown several sizes too big, split into orderly segments, and begun floating about casually just a few inches outside her head. If her hand moved, it felt like it was of its own accord, as if her body had staged a coup and started doing what it thought was the proper thing to do. For the past five or so hours, Anya had wandered stiffly around the restaurant, her limbs moving mechanically as they raised her pistol, hefted a supply pack, or checked Marcus for a fever. To add to the general discomfort of the night, the temperature had plummeted, turning Anya's breath into pale clouds of steam as she made her tiny rounds. She'd had to cover up Marcus's silent form with the shreds of his under-armour in the hopes of keeping the cold at bay.

It was only when the fire--her only source of light and heat inside the night-smothered restaurant--began to burn low that the lieutenant finally gave in and allowed herself the luxury of sitting down. She'd plunked down by the pile of supply packs, beside Jackie and Marcus, the former still curled up innocently by the latter's stitched side.

Anya reached over and smoothed back Jackie's auburn hair, the woman's lips somehow managing to form a weary smile. As bad as it was staying up three nights in a row strung out Xanthine, the woman knew without a doubt that it was all too worth it.

Satisfied with her performance for the night, Anya rewarded herself by sidling up to Jackie and letting her head lull back just a little bit. Dawn would come soon, and if their guardian angel was still on the job, Dom and Delta squad would be riding in on its golden tail.

Delta squad, and salvation; their portal back to the safe haven that was Belphe. Anya sighed; the simple notion made her want to cry. A few times during the night, she was sure that she heard the engine of a far-off vehicle somewhere in the city, but there had been no rescue to show for it.

"...You awake?"

The two words punched holes in the pre-dawn silence, making Anya jump out of her skin. Once she determined that the disturbance wasn't the harbinger of an impending Locust raid, Anya turned to stare at the source of the words.

"Marcus?"

His eyes were reduced to slits, but they were open and staring out into space. Dark circles under those eyes gave the sergeant a haggard, almost sickly look--he really looked his age, Anya realized.

"Yes...I'm awake. Or something like that." the woman replied at last. Anya furrowed her brow. "Are _you_?" She wasn't entirely sure he actually was.

Marcus blinked, long and slow. "Unfortunately."

"You shouldn't be."

_You're still injured; your body needs time to rest and heal, _she meant to add, but couldn't find the energy to say.

"Xanthine." was all Marcus responded.

"What?"

The sound of metal scraping against wood filled the silence as Marcus shifted slightly. "It's a stim." he said plainly, and Anya immediately understood. Of course, why hadn't she seen it before? She'd given Marcus some of the potent drug for the pain; it kept her awake all night, and it had apparently done the same for Marcus, in spite of his body's desperate need for sleep.

"Oh God, Marcus..." Anya turned slightly on her side to get a better look at the sergeant. "You've been up all night?"

"Yeah."

Anya winced. "I should have thought of that..."

Marcus's shoulders made what could have been a shrug, and he said no more on the subject. Instead, he gave a tired grunt and nodded towards the wide windows that lined the front of the building.

"It's snowing."

Anya glanced over at the windows and saw that he was right. Outside, huge ghostly snowflakes were falling thickly over the street, blanketing the outside city in an enormous quietness. It was beautiful, but Anya was still overwhelmingly grateful that Dom was coming to their rescue; otherwise, with nothing more than their armour to keep out the cold, the sudden arrival of winter would bring only freezing death for them--especially their young one.

Sighing, the lieutenant gently wrapped her arm around Jackie's sleeping form. She wanted to say so much; to thank Marcus for everything he'd done. For helping her escape into Ilima, for putting up with the Stranded, for fighting off the Boomers and the Drones and the Wretches and the Reaver. She knew she owed her life to him a dozen times over; that Jackie wouldn't be here in her arms if it weren't for him.

Yet, in some strange way, Anya felt like the sergeant knew how eternally grateful she was. All along, from the night he'd caught her in that rations warehouse, to the moment he fell beneath the Reaver claw and let her and Jackie flee to safety, Marcus had known exactly how much Anya needed him, and he never let her down. Somehow, in those long minutes of silence they shared, a wordless sentiment passed between the two burned-out soldiers. It was the same sentiment that they had exchanged in the days after Aspho Fields, and the moment they first saw each other again after Marcus's four year stint in prison.

It was a sentiment of perserverance; that, whether as a team of Lieutenant and Sergeant, or as individual human beings, they could overcome.

Gradually, like a nuclear blast in slow motion, the early rays of dawn crept through the ruins of Ilima, dispelling the snowy darkness.

Yes, they had most certainly overcome.

Dom had promised to arrive by the light of dawn, but Anya was still mildly surprised when, mere minutes later, the distant roar of what could only be an APC engine filtered through the snow-muted air of the streets.

Anya gave Jackie a squeeze, then weakly punched Marcus's arm. Too exhausted to punch back, Marcus just offered her the ghost of a smile and looked back out the windows. Anya had given their specific location to Dom the night before, and as much as the woman wanted to jump up and run outside, she found that she was perfectly content to lay back on the supply packs and watch the squat, gun-metal grey vehicle--an Armadillo--skid to a stop just beyond the restaurant doors. Scant seconds later, there was the sound of a hatch clunking open.

"Marcus? Anya? Are you here?!"

Footsteps now, the crunch of multiple pairs of boots in snow as they approached the restaurant.

"You sure this is it, man? Looks deserted."

"Yes! Look at the doors: they're barricaded. Besides, this is the only restaurant on this street."

"I don't know, there's nothing---"

"Baird, shut up and help me out here."

The frail barrier of stacked chairs and tables shuddered as something crashed against the front doors. Another crash, and the barricade toppled back. The doors swung open.

"Holy...They're here!"

More heavy footsteps, urgent and anxious. Suddenly, Anya's vision was obscured by huge, tree trunk-like armoured legs, and then, an instant later, the face of Damon Baird.

"You look like _shit_."

"Marcus? Marcus, man, can you hear me?"

Turning away from Baird, Anya saw that Dom was on one knee beside the sergeant with both hands locked on his shoulders, obviously resisting the urge to shake his friend violently. Cole was standing over his shoulder, his features screwed up in concern.

"Marcus! _Marcus!_"

"Get your hands off me." Marcus squinted up at his fellow Gear, though his voice was devoid of any real venom. A massive grin plastered itself over Dom's face, and he leaned back to get a better look at Marcus's poorly stitched injury.

Dom whistled. "Impressive." He turned to give a warm smile to Anya, but then his gaze was snagged on the young girl nestled snugly between Marcus and Anya, her eyes fluttering open as she only just began to wake.

"Oh. Wow."

Jackie yawned, then went rigid as she realized she was surrounded by three enormous men that she'd never seen before in her life.

"Jackie." Anya whispered gently into her goddaughter's ear. "This is Dominic, Damon, and Augustus. They're our rescue."

Jackie offered the trio a timid little wave. "Hi."

Dom returned the gesture with a smile, and Cole waved back. Baird gave his predictable little snort of impatience.

"We're safe, Jacks." Anya murmured. She physically felt the child relax, and then remembered how little energy she had of her own.

"Okay, we'll get you guys into the Armadillo, then we can make tracks to Belphe. We've got some regenerate salve for you, Marcus, so that'll help with your injury until we can get you into the med centre back home." Dom said. It was evident that he had slipped smoothly into the role of squad leader in the days of Marcus's absence. Anya knew that if Marcus wasn't teetering on the edge of drugged-up unconsciousness, he'd probably be pretty proud of his long time friend.

"Cole, you help out Anya and Jackie. Baird, come and give me a hand with Marcus."

Marcus shifted himself gingerly. "Go away. I don't need anyone to---"

"Shut up." Anya and Dom ordered in unison. Marcus aimed a withering glare at them both, but made no further rebuttal as Dom and Baird each put one of the sergeant's arms around their shoulder and hoisted him from the floor.

"Yeah, alright, try not to drag him too hard. Oh, and grab his shit...yeah, his armour. And his Lancer, moron."

Cole then bent over Anya, offering his hand with a big grin.

"Thanks, Gus." Anya grinned weakly back and took his hand. The enormous Gear yanked her to her feet, Jackie scrambling up with her. Anya stood for a moment, swaying dangerously, until gravity won out and she toppled faintly into Cole.

"Woah there, missy." Cole chuckled, lifting Anya like she weighed nothing and setting her back on her unsteady feet. "You gotta wait 'til we're inside the 'Dill before you start doin' any of that."

In spite of her exhaustion, Anya smiled--Cole's cheerful mood seemed to be as indestructible as his body. With his hand on her shoulder and Jackie's hand grasped tightly in her own, Anya followed Baird and Dom as they carried Marcus to the door.

"So, who's this little lady?" Cole asked, his kind brown eyes falling to Jackie.

"Jacqueline Spence." Jackie blinked up at the soldier.

Cole nodded his approval. "Uh-huh, uh-huh. And where you from?"

To Anya's bleary surprise, the young girl broke into an animated explanation of how she used to live in house number 612, until the city sank and she and her careworker had to make a break for the Hospital; all as if Cole had no clue about the fate of Ilima. Unflinching, the man listened intently all the way to the APC outside. After the events of the previous night, Anya was just happy Jackie was talking again.

A blast of cold air greeted Anya as they stepped out into the snow-covered street. They came to the Armadillo; the sharp scent of gasoline curled up into Anya's nose. Dom and Baird were trying to get Marcus through the open hatch--as gently as possibly, of course. But even so, the sergeant cursed as his stitches visibly stretched. Dom snapped a scowl on Baird.

"Shit, Baird, be careful!"

"I'm _trying_, dickwad! Not sure if you noticed, but Boomer Butt here isn't exactly a featherweight!"

"Holy crap, you are such a pansy."

"Oh, _I'm_ the pansy. The only reason we're still stuck out here is because said Boomer Butt decided it'd be fun to get bitchslapped by a Reaver."

Anya watched as Marcus was finally lifted through the hatch and into the APC, her brow knitting. Marcus had to be in all kinds of agony if he wasn't even bothering to order his men to stop their bitching. He needed real medical attention, but they had at least a four hour drive before they could give that to him. Anya just hoped Dom's regenerate would be enough to last him the time it would take to get back to Belphe.

"Alright, easy...there you go. Yeah, just lay him down over there." Dom left Marcus with Baird, then helped Anya and Jackie into the Armadillo.

"You guys are pretty incredible, you know." The corporal said quietly as Anya and Jackie slumped into a pair of seats. Marcus was laying motionless on the black steel grating at their feet.

Anya stared up at him. "Yeah, pretty much."

Dom laughed, then pulled the hatch door closed behind Cole and Baird. "Well, you guys just take it easy. We'll be in Belphe in no time."

He must have spotted Anya's imperceptible frown, because he rested a hand on her drooping shoulder and held her gaze.

"Anya, he's going to be okay." Dom said, his voice lowered. "I promise."

The woman saw the honesty gleaming in the soldier's honeyed eyes, and she prayed he was right.

With that, Dom gave Jackie one last parting smile and ducked off towards the front of the vehicle. Baird was already sprawled out in shotgun, and Cole took a seat opposite Anya and Jackie.

Anya almost nodded off, but then she felt Jackie shift in the seat to her left. The woman looked down.

"Marcus?" Jackie whispered, gently nudging the soldier's hip with her foot.

"Mhm."

The girl's brows knit together in an almost comical expression of worry. "Are you gonna be okay?"

If Anya wasn't about to pass out, she would have laughed. It was as if Jackie didn't believe Dom's promise of a full Marcus recovery, and had decided to get the final verdict from the man himself.

He cracked open a single blue eye.

"Sure thing." he said huskily. His eye closed, and he was silent again. Evidently satisfied, Jackie brought her knees up to her chest and leaned her head on Anya's shoulder. The engine roared to life beneath their feet; Anya allowed her head to fall back on the seat at last.

As her heavy lids closed, the lieutenant was distantly aware of Dom's voice filling the small metal interior of the Armadillo.

"Alright, Delta, let's get the fuck out of here."

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_Two Years Before E-Day..._

_The late night air was balmy against her exposed skin, but she still couldn't help but shiver as she tottered down the paved walkway. Marcus must have felt her body shudder, because he curled his arm just a little tighter around hers, allowing her to feed off some of his body heat._

_Anya didn't know why she was so cold. They had only left the dark, smoky warmth of the taxi a few minutes ago, and the rough fabric of her ceremonial uniform should have been more than enough to keep any late-night chill away; Marcus was wearing the same, and Anya could feel that he was blazing right through the thick material. Besides, shouldn't she be feeling the hot flush of the two glasses of wine she'd drank in the restaurant less than an hour ago?_

_A car rushed past the sidewalk, its wind tousling her golden locks._

_Maybe it was fear. She did not want to go where she was headed. But Marcus had insisted on escorting her back, and Dom had already paid the taxi. As much as she dreaded it, she had no choice._

_"Well...this is it." she said, pointing to a gated lawn that surrounded an immaculate white apartment tower. Tugging on his arm, they steered off the sidewalk and down towards the enormous gate. It loomed above them, its black iron points stretching skyward, seemingly caging the white apartment building behind it. There was a grey box mounted on the gate's front; its face was a little flashing green keypad impatiently demanding a pass code._

_"Wow." Marcus said quietly, craning his neck to stare at the light-filled windows running up the soaring tower. "Your mother...she must have had a nice place."_

_Anya stepped up to the keypad. "...Yeah." she whispered, trying not to think of what awaited her in the apartments beyond the gate. She reached for the blinking keys, the required numbers repeating over and over in her head like a monotone song. How many times had she come here, had entered in these exact numbers?_

_The woman attempted to push the first number, then realized she was shaking. Her fingers, inexplicably numb, simply refused to do what she told them. Her heart felt suddenly leaden, and she buried her face in her quivering hands._

_"Anya?"_

_Anya hunched her shoulders protectively. "I..I can't do it, Marcus." Her voice, muffled by her hands, sounded so cold and tiny in the empty night that surrounded her. "I can't go up there and...and look at all her stuff. I just...I..."_

_To her surprise, she felt a large, warm hand gently grip her shaking shoulder. Gingerly, Marcus turned her around so that she was staring up into his alarmingly blue eyes._

_"You don't have to do this."_

_"Yes, I do. I need to start boxing her stuff and---"_

_"Anya, its not going anywhere." he said, obviously trying to select his words carefully. "Don't push it if you're not ready."_

Not ready._ Anya was only eighteen, but she felt like such a failure for even contemplating those words. It had been just weeks since Major Helena Stroud gave her life in the battle of Aspho Fields; Marcus had lost his best friend and near-brother, Carlos, mere hours later, and he wasn't falling apart all over the place. She tried so hard to be strong like him, but just when Anya thought she'd shed the last of her tears, something new reminded her of her late mother--a blooming flower, the morning song of a bird, or just a miraculously placed sunbeam--and she found that she was just as raw as the day she first lost her._

_"I just...can't." Anya whispered, giving in to her aching heart. "I can't go in there."_

_Marcus's massive shoulders shrugged, making the stretched seams of his uniform suit groan in protest. "So don't."_

_Anya dropped her hands from her face and gestured morosely around the abandoned street. "Where am I going to go? It's almost midnight and...__and I'm barely sober and..."_

_Marcus quickly withdrew his hands and deftly stuffed them into the tight pockets of his suit jacket. Anya studied his face; he promptly studied the laces on his polished shoes._

_"Are you tired?" he asked suddenly._

_"What?"_

_The man lifted his eyes and gave her a deliberate glance._

_"I..." Anya fought through her wine-hazy mind to determine just how she felt. "No." she replied at last, mildly surprised at herself. "I'm...wide awake, actually."_

_At this, Marcus coughed and, mimicking the genteel gesture he'd made back in the restaurant, offered his arm to her._

_"All great problems are solved by walking."_

_The odd sentiment sounded like a quote out of a dusty old philosophy textbook--then, Anya remembered who she was dealing with, and she realized that it probably _was_. Managing a weak smile, Anya draped her arm through his, and together, they strode off down the sidewalk._

_"Who's that quote from?" Anya ventured after a moment._

_Marcus kept his eyes straight ahead. "Dr. F. Zither."_

_"Ah." Anya vaguely recognized the exotic name from one of her History classes. She couldn't help but grin inwardly at the typical Marcus behavior. Leave it to a Fenix to try to hold your shattering world together with the glue of esoteric philosophy._

_They passed under a streetlight, its soft orange glow making their shadows spin around them as they walked. Anya sneaked a look to her side; Marcus's face was stony as ever, but the perma-scowl he'd obtained after Aspho seemed somewhat dissipated. Perhaps the wine was having an effect on him, too._

_"So," the woman began again. "Where are we going?"_

_Marcus inhaled slowly then nodded down the street. Following his gaze, Anya saw that a wide, elaborate building was rising up above the horizon before them. It was stunningly beautiful; its roof was a gleaming gold dome, inlaid with countless etchings of angels and gears. The sandstone walls were covered in elegant statues, all trimmed in the same fine gold that adorned the curving roof. All along the walls, fires burned in shallow metal bowls that hung from poles that jutted out every couple of feet. Anya could see that the rear of the building was protected by a circle of lush gardens that surrounded the grounds like an emerald halo._

_"What _is_ this?" Anya asked, her eyes widening to drink in all the lavish architecture._

_"You'll see." Marcus said. They neared the building's entrance, but instead of continuing towards the opulent double-doors, seemingly wrought of solid gold, he pulled Anya off to the building's side, towards the great green hedges of the decorative gardens._

_"Are we...can we go here?" she hissed as her black pumps treaded over the neatly trimmed grass. Marcus didn't offer an answer; strangely, Anya discovered that she didn't really care what they were and weren't allowed to do. A thin layer of her inhibitions shed, the woman found herself eagerly following Marcus off the lawns and in past the protective hedges._

_In an instant, they'd broken free of the concrete jungle of the city and emerged in the emerald haven of what looked like the back gardens. The grass beneath their feet was replaced by smooth cobbled stones, and they were surrounded by thick leafy foliage--bright flowerbeds, low-hanging willows, even tall hedges creatively clipped into various shapes and figures. Over the gentle rustling of the wind in the willowy trees, delicate notes of faraway music trickled through the gardens. _

_"Marcus, this is incredible." Anya's jaw was slack. "How did you find this place?"_

_He gave no reply, but Anya thought she could see the past of a lonely explorer._

_"It gets better." he said, squeezing her arm and aiming her towards a hedge sculpture of a rearing horse, rising up near the wall of the golden building. As they walked past the horse, the music got significantly louder, and the green hedge walls of the garden opened up to a dizzyingly vast outdoor theatre. It was made of rows upon rows of stone seats that encircled a central stage at the bottom, each layer going deeper and deeper down like a massive circular stair. The auditorium was nearly full, with most of the seats occupied by elegantly dressed men and woman, all watching the orchestra that played in a pit at the foot of the stage._

_Anya stopped dead in her tracks just to gawk at the overwhelming beauty that surrounded her. "It's the opera house." she realized aloud. She felt a tug at her arm._

_"Come on, I think it's about to start."_

_Anya shot Marcus a puzzled look, but didn't protest when he led her towards the auditorium. They sneaked across the top-most seats, shuffling until they found a section that was mostly empty. Avoiding the questioning glances of a few nearby patrons, the pair slipped down onto a seat and gazed down at the stage. The orchestra had died down, and a couple of spotlights lit up the large stone circle._

_Moments later, a man and a woman, draped in the most extravagant red and blue costumes, sauntered out onto the stage. There was thunderous applause, followed by a moment of lush silence, and then the orchestra picked up again, filling the auditorium with the sound of silken strings. The man then began to sing; his voice was deep, and it rang out powerfully as the opera began._

_Anya leaned over in her seat. "Do you come here often?" she whispered to Marcus._

_He paused, then gave a tiny nod. They listened to the velvety singing for a moment, but Anya sensed the relative silence between her and the man at her side._

_"It was...um...nice of your father to take everyone out to that restaurant tonight."_

_Marcus turned to her, his brows furrowing in confusion. "But it was terrible."_

_Anya grimaced. "Well, it was a bit...formal, but Dom and Maria seemed to enjoy themselves...right?"_

_She didn't have to look at Marcus to know that that was a lie too. Everyone had already been rubbed raw by the emotional Embry Star award ceremony, where they had received their medals of honour for fighting in Aspho. Sadly, too many of them had accepted Embry Stars for those who hadn't survived the battle--herself included--and no-one had been in the mood for the painfully formal and stiff dinner that Adam Fenix had insisted they all attend. In all honesty, Anya couldn't believe that everyone was so shocked when she and Marcus joined forces and downed a whole bottle of chardonnay by themselves._

_The singing man reached a crescendo, then swept upstage to allow the woman to begin her verse. It was all very...calm. Even Marcus looked a little less tense here. For what seemed like the first time ever, Anya felt like she could just sit back and relax; let things wash over her without trying to fight them. Here, in this incredible place, with a man--a friend--who she knew she could trust, it felt an awful lot like real happiness._

_The costumed woman waltzed across the stone as her voice dipped and rose, entering a more somber key. Anya was pulled from her reverie, not by the sorrow of the music, but by something stronger, something more...accepting._

_"Marcus?"_

_Anya was slightly surprised when he turned to face her in full, his eyes searching her face._

_"Yeah?"_

_"...Tell me about my mother." Anya said, her eyes cast down. "You fought alongside her; I want to know what she was like out in the field."_

_Marcus stared at her, blinking. Then, dropped his gaze to his feet and took a deep breath._

_"Major Stroud was...she was a real leader." he spoke carefully. "Not someone who just yelled at you and ordered you around; she gave us direction...made us want to work harder."_

_Anya closed her eyes, just listening. It hurt, but she had to hear this; _wanted_ to hear this._

_"I mean...yeah, she scared the shit out of us, but...she was the kind of person who seemed unstoppable." Marcus continued. "I guess she made us feel unstoppable, too."_

_Anya's eyes opened. It was incredible; as much as she expected to be in tears by now, she just felt _free_._

_Marcus was staring at her again, his features molded into an image of fearful concern, as if he was waiting for an explosion of tear-drenched wailing. But Anya only felt a sudden rush of gratitude for the man, and she gifted him with her first genuine smile in months. The corner of Marcus's mouth twitched up in a lopsided pseudo-smile--which, for Marcus, was a big deal--and Anya sidled an inch closer. Ignoring Marcus's ever-so-slightly raised brows, she planted a light kiss on his cheek and rested her head on his broad shoulder._

_A silent sigh escaped her lips; somehow, she wasn't cold anymore._


	13. Something That I'm For

Well, I hate to say this, but I'm predicting a bit of a long wait until the next update. Sorry guys!  
It's just that school is starting early this year, and I'll be pretty busy. But just think: it's the climactic final chapter! You've got something to look forward to! _Excitement? I think so!_  
Anyways, I apologize for any future delay in advance. Oh, and I thank the reviewers, too! You guys are super special awesome.**  


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Chapter Twelve: Something That I'm For

The ride home seemed so much longer than the drive up.

Dom sighed, rotating the massive wheel of the APC back and forth. Maybe it was because one of their most valued members was down for the count. And the kid, Dom reminded himself. She changed everything.

Baird seemed to be aboard the same train of thought.

"So..." he began, leaning back casually in the passenger's seat and dropping his massive boots on the dash. "I thought Anya couldn't have kids."

"She can't." Dom replied dryly, working hard to keep his eyes fixed straight ahead as he drove. In all honesty, he wanted to avoid the topic of Anya's fertility alltogether, especially with the resident jackass of the team.

"Then whose loins did that brat spawn from?"

Dom allowed himself to snap a silencing glare on his comrade. Baird just rolled his eyes, then twisted around in his seat to peer back into the cargo area of the Armadillo. Anya, Jackie, and Marcus still hadn't moved since they left Ilima. "I don't trust her."

"Dude, she's _eleven_. What's she going to do, paint your nails?"

At this, Cole, who had been applying the salve to Marcus's wound, shot a wide smile at Baird.

"Ya know, I think Baird deserves a lil' pamperin' every now and then, haha!"

"Hahaha-shut-the-fuck-up." Baird was still glaring at the three sleeping forms draped across the seats and floor. "I just don't trust kids. Especially not ones that pop up in the middle of FUBAR cities."

"Well, technically, she didn't pop up in the _middle_ of the city, 'cause it's all sunk under---"

"Oh wow, ­_thank_ you, Cole. Because I totally didn't get that from _spending almost a week_ in that shithole."

"Hey, shut up. Both of you." Dom ordered, his fingers pressed to his tac-com. "I think I'm actually getting something here."

"_Belphe Control to approaching Armadillo_." A tinny female voice jarred Dom's eardrum. "_Identify yourself. Repeat: identify yourself, over_."

Cole and Baird shut their mouths and listened as their tac-coms picked up the line. Dom held his breath; if they were close enough for long-range radio communication again, then they had to be coming close to Belphe.

"Control, this is Delta squad coming in from an aborted rescue mission. We are carrying a wounded, and will require---"

"_Negative, Delta. You now have orders to report to the north quarter of the city and utilize your vehicle in transporting wounded soldiers from the fight, over_."

Dom and Baird exchanged identical _what-the-fuck?_ looks. _Fight?_ What was going on?

"Control, repeat: What fight?"

There was a brief, yet tangible pause on the channel.

"_Delta, Belphe is under Locust attack_."

Dom's expression fell from confusion to dread. Baird cursed colourfully, and Cole made an inventive comment pertaining to the smashing of "those freaks'" heads. The corporal took a deep breath; he'd never been good at talking over the tac-coms.

"Roger that, Control. We'll assist as soon as we---"

"_Hold on, Delta_." There was another, longer pause, as if the comm officer was speaking to someone else. "_Is Lieutenant Stroud with you?_"

"Uh, yeah. Affirmative."

"_Then please inform her that she is needed at the comm tents immediately. A Gear is being arranged to meet you in the city and escort the lieutenant here_."

Dom furrowed his brow. "I don't think she's in any shape for..."

The corporal trailed off as he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning, he saw that Anya was standing beside him, wearing a tired, but genuine smile.

"I'm fine, Dom." The woman pressed her tac-com. "Control, this is Lieutenant Stroud. Where is the meetup location? Over."

"_You'll find the escort on the perimeter of the city, at the western Imulsion station_."

"Oh, fantastic. An Imulsion station." Anya muttered under breath. Baird shot her a questioning look, but she wasn't looking. "Roger, Control, we'll be there. Delta out."

Dom ended the transmission and joined the rest of Delta in staring at Anya. She casually checked the ammunition in her Snub pistol as if nothing had happened.

"So...you're feeling okay?" Dom warily voiced the concerns of the others. Anya nodded.

"I've been better. But who hasn't?"

Cole seemed unconvinced. "I don't know, missy. You lookin' like you shouldn't be fightin'." His deep voice was laden with concern. "No offense."

"None taken, Gus." Anya replied lightly. "But really, I'm not going to be fighting anything. If _you_ do your jobs, that is." She chuckled. "Come on, let's get to that station."

The purring engine jolted, and the APC was once again coasting steadily along the rocky terrain. The cabin of the vehicle was enveloped in silence.

It had only been two weeks since the fall of Jacinto, but even in that small amount of time, Belphe had become home. It was their base; their safehouse; their _haven_. And now, all that was threatened. No one wanted to say it, but everyone knew that this attack had to be serious. If Command was already diverting Delta to the fight before they'd even arrived, that could only mean that their on-site forces were already exhausted. That did not bode well.

They must have been closer than Dom had originally estimated, because it wasn't long before they neared their destination.

They spotted the smoke first.

It rose, curling and billowing up over the horizon before they'd even caught sight of any rag-tag buildings. Once again, no one said a word; Dom's foot weighed heavier on the gas.

The smoke became thicker, blacker, as they roared towards the city. It was all strangely reminiscent of Ilima.

They crested the horizon.

"Shit."

No, Belphe wasn't as bad as Ilima, but it sure was trying. The smoke was rising up from the northern quarter of the ragtag city, where several large fires were eating up a cluster of wooden buildings. Overhead, a flock of Ravens performed a dangerous aerial waltz with several Reavers. The rest of the city seemed to be relatively intact; if it wasn't for the continuous flash of frag explosions and muzzle fire in the north, you'd almost think everything was on the verge of normalcy.

But the north quarter was still in serious trouble. The situation obviously wasn't in control, and the battle was still raging.

"The rations station." Dom said suddenly.

Baird cocked a brow. "What?"

"Both rations stations are in the north quarter." The words tumbled out of Dom's mouth. "A lot of other storage houses, too."

Baird stared at the corporal, then buried his face in his hands.

"We are _so_ fucked." he articulated into his gloves.

Now Dom understood why the COG was throwing everything they had at this attack. If they lost the all-important stores of food, weapons, and ammo that the north held, then everything was as good as gone. Game over; Locust win.

"Dom."

The corporal turned. Anya was kneeling by Jackie and Marcus, both still unconcious. She gave Dom a long, deliberate look.

"We need to get in there and help the Gears." she said softly. "Me included."

It didn't take long for Dom to comprehend the subliminal message in Anya's words. She was taking the weight from his shoulders; giving him permission to put the fight before the people. The woman must have known how unwilling he was to go into battle when Marcus was in such rough shape. But she was speaking for Marcus and Jackie, shouldering the burden that was their safety so that more Gears could be saved. If Dom thought about it, he knew that if Marcus were concious, he'd be gruffly insisting the exact same thing: to put the few at risk to ensure the survival of the many.

Evidently unsatisfied with the silence that ensued, Cole jumped up and brandished his Lancer. "You heard the lady! Let's get over there and _assist_ those sons o' bitches!"

Dom frowned, his eyes darting over the prone figures laying in the back of the APC, blissfully unaware. But Anya caught his eye, her clear blue eyes telling him, in no uncertain turns, what he had to do. His heart quickened, and his foot pressed down on the gas; the flaming scape of the northern quarter began to crawl towards them.

* * * * * * * * * *

Even at the gas station, more than a mile away from the real grit of the battle, the smell of gunpowder was thick on the stagnant air.

The hatch to the Armadillo was open, letting the hot scent come wafting into the cramped metal space. Completely oblivious to the smell was the two people in the door, one inside the APC speaking quietly to the other outside. Dom, Cole, and Baird watched from their seats within the vehicle.

"Lieutenant, please...the comm tents are in chaos right now. They need all the help they can get."

"Yes, I know,_ I know_. And I'm coming. I'm just asking for a moment."

From his place at the head of the APC, Dom couldn't see either Anya's or the other Gear's face, but he could more than imagine the former using her Helena face. However, the man's voice was deep--the voice of a man who didn't much warm to the notion of backing down--and it was obvious that he wasn't too keen on hanging around in a would-be hot zone.

"Look...ma'am..."

There was a long moment of tense silence. Somewhere in the distance, a Mulcher cranked out several hundred rounds.

"Ah, shit. You've got a _moment_. Then we go."

Dom could hear the smile in the lieutenant's voice. "Then we go." she concurred. There was the sound of light boots on metal grating, and Anya was back inside the 'Dill proper, kneeling at Jackie's feet. Unfortunately, the girl had awoken during the short ride into the city, and Anya had been forced to inform Jackie of her necessary departure. Now, the woman was faced with the task of saying goodbye--likely, for a very long time.

"You're leaving." Jackie said simply, her beautiful eyes glazed over.

Anya bit her lip. Her jaw worked, as if trying to whip up some miraculous speech that would set Jackie's worries to rest. But in the end, she just nodded somberly. "Yes."

Jackie only looked at her godmother. Somewhere deep inside him, the last wisps of Dom's fatherly heart couldn't help but break. He knew that look so well; the darkness in a child's eyes that pleaded desperately not to be left alone. As a father in the army, Dom had known that, in spite of all the amazing imagination they possessed, the greatest fear a child's mind could conjur up was not sharp-toothed sharks or rabid wolves or cackling witches, but rather being abandoned by their guardian.

Anya had to have known this too, because she seemed close to tears as she laid her hands on either side of her goddaughter's face. Dom heard her curse under her breath as she glanced at her escort soldier outside.

"Please, is there nowhere we can take her?"

The blue visor of the Gear's helmet glinted in the dusky light as he shook his head.

"No, ma'am. I told you, the hospital is the only safe place, and even that is a madhouse." He shrugged. "Besides, our route back to the comm tents goes nowhere near."

Hearing the Gear speak, Dom suddenly got an idea. He leaped out from his driver's seat and put an urgent hand on Anya's slender shoulder.

"Anya, we're gonna be taking wounded Gears to the hospital." he pointed out. "We can make sure Jackie is safe." He flicked his eyes to the sergeant on the floor. "Marcus too."

Anya glanced from Dom, to Jackie, to the Gear, back to Jackie. The woman swallowed.

"You hear that, Jacks? Dom's going to take care of you. Everything is going to work out." She forced a strained smile, then wrapped her arms around Jackie and crushed her to her chest. The child still seemed rather dazed, and she made no more protest as Anya rose from her knees.

"Okay, I'm coming."

The lieutenant brought her pistol to bear, then made for the exit, but stopped short. Dom looked down; Marcus had finally come to, and his first act of conciousness had been locking a vice-grip on Anya's ankle.

The woman stared down at the sergeant.

"Marcus, what---"

"Where..." Marcus began foggily, his free hand rising to give his eyes a vicious rub. "Where...are you going...?"

Not nearly as gentle with the burly man as she was with her goddaughter, Anya shook off Marcus's hand.

"To the comm tents. They need me."

Delta could only watch as, in a Herculean show of superhuman endurance, Marcus hoisted himself to his unsteady feet. He stumbled once, clawed around for something to hold onto, then latched onto a nearby gun rack. The escort Gear, who'd been watching the past few minutes with nervous impatience, seemed to be rather sobered up by the sight of a shirtless, beat-up Marcus Fenix dragging himself to stand before Anya.

However, after all that tumultuous effort, it appeared Marcus couldn't actually find anything to say to the lieutenant. He just stood there, swaying slightly, glaring at her.

But Anya only smiled. Her hand stirred at her side; for a moment, she looked like she was going to reach out, but then her hand quickly recoiled back to brush a stray strand of hair out of her eyes.

"Marcus." she said, meeting his eyes. "I'm capable."

Marcus returned her gaze, his brow furrowed in malcontent, but then he released a long breath and closed his eyes.

"Yeah, I know."

There was a moment, then, when something shifted; Dom _knew_ he saw it. The two held each other's eyes for a instant longer, then Anya was leaning halfway out the hatch, Marcus's stare still boring into her back.

The lieutenant was almost out when Jackie scrambled from her seat and threw herself at Anya. The child gave her one last gargantuan squeeze, then hastily pulled away.

"Love you."

Anya stood there, blinking, as if unsure what had just hit her. Then her lips formed a tiny smile.

"Love you too, Jacks." Anya whispered to the girl. Her gaze then lifted from Jackie to the haggard man behind her. Her smile faded into a determined line, and she simply nodded to Marcus. He returned the wordless gesture; a second later, and the escort Gear was helping Anya down from the APC and onto the street. The hatch clunked shut behind her, leaving Jackie and Marcus alone at the door.

There was an awkward pause, and then Baird clapped his hands once. "Well, _that_ was overly dramatic!" He turned to Dom. "Now, can we please get a move on? I'm not sure why, but I'm feeling rather enthusiastic about dodging hot lead today."

"Sure thing." Dom cast a sidelong glance at the blonde Gear. "How 'bout you drive?"

Baird rolled his eyes, but plunked himself in front of the wheel anyways, Cole's trademark teasings issuing from the passenger seat beside him. The APC started up again with a rumble, but Dom's attention was still on the young girl and the sergeant at the back of the vehicle.

Jackie turned about to look up at the massive Gear. "Are you feeling better?"

Marcus released his tenuous hold on the gun rack to rub his eyes again. "Sure."

Dom looked the sergeant up and down. As drained as he appeared now, it was obvious that Marcus was fairing much better. The regenerate salve they'd slathered over his grisly wound had done wonders for it, speeding up the healing process until the torn flesh had at least somewhat reformed under Anya's crude stitching. Also, sleeping during the long hours it had taken to reach Belphe seemed to have restore Marcus to something like an alert state of mind.

"Shit, if I'd known that Anya leaving was all it took to get you up, I'd have booted her out a long time ago." Dom joked, settling himself in one of the rear passenger seats. Marcus shot him an unappreciative glare, then proceeded to tenderly lower himself into a seat opposite. After a moment's hesitence, Jackie followed suit and clambered into a seat near Marcus.

"What the hell is going on?" Marcus demanded as he carefully zipped up the top of his protective chainmail under-armour. "Why is Anya going to the comm tents?"

Dom pressed his lips together. As was his policy, he wanted to break the news of Belphe's attack as easily as possible.

"The north quarter is under attack. The COG is doing everything they can to protect the storage warehouses there."

Marcus growled, his soldier's mind needing only a second to digest the new information. "Are we assisting?"

Dom nodded. "Command is sending us to casevac soldiers to the hospital."

"And we gonna casevac the shit outta them!" Cole whooped from the front seat.

"Take it down a notch, Rambo." Baird glowered. "We're trying to save them, not kill them."

But Marcus was knitting his brow. "You don't need four soldiers to run a casevac."

Dom smiled grimly. "You read my mind, man."

"Oooooh no. No no no no no." Baird tossed over his shoulder. "No, you are _not_ running off and leaving us with corpse duty."

"Hey, I thought you said we weren't gonna kill nobody!" Cole teased, earning a little giggle from Jackie. Baird locked a long, withering glare on his large squadmate, then on Jackie, and finally on Dom. The Latino soldier just shrugged.

"Marcus is right, man. There's no point in all four of us staying in the 'Dill. We'll just take up more space. It's better if two of us go out to help with the fight."

"Dom." Marcus said in a low tone. "You regen'd my side, right?"

"Yeah. It's been soaking since we left Ilima."

"Then Anya's stitches will hold?"

"Well...yeah. I guess."

Baird snapped irritably back to the wheel, veering to the left to avoid a group of frightened civvies scurrying down the cloistered road. "Holy friggin' hell! Watch where you're fleeing!" He resumed glaring at Dom. "No, you don't get to run off and have fun while we're stuck here. No. No. Not."

"Then it's settled." Marcus said, completely disreguarding the blonde Gear's ensuing string of negatory synonyms. "Baird, you and Cole stay in the 'Dill and help with the casevacs. Dom and I will go out and assist."

"Yeah." Dom agreed, then did a double take. "Wait, what? Dude, you can't assist _shit_. Not in the state you're in."

However, Marcus was already hoisting the plates of his damaged armour into his lap. He shot Dom a glance that said that his 'state' was not to be commented on.

"You said the stitches would hold." he reminded Dom with gruff non-chalance, sliding the armour over his torso.

"Yeah, but---"

"Then shut up."

Dom watched as the sergeant began to buckle and strap himself into the heavy casing of bullet-proof metal.

"They'll hold, but not, like, _hold_ hold." The corporal was painfully aware that his words were doing nothing to deter his friend. With a grunt of effort--and pain, Dom was sure--Marcus stood himself up. This time, he didn't stumble; the added weight of the armour seemed to give him some extra stability. Jackie looked up at him, almost in awe--from her position, she couldn't see what Dom could see: the Reaver's claw had carved a trench through all the levels of Marcus's armour, and his gruesome gash was still partially visible through the layers of damaged metal.

Not seeming to care, Marcus scowled around at the cramped interior of the APC. "My gun?"

Dom sighed. It was obvious that there was no stopping Marcus now. Without another word of protest, Dom reached for a gunrack in the rear, pulled a beat-up assault rifle from its mesh shelves, and tossed it to the sergeant.

"You'd better not get yourself killed."

Marcus just snorted. He hefted his Lancer, then joined Baird and Cole at the head of the vehicle. Instantly, he was back to Sergeant Marcus Fenix, leader of Delta squad.

"We getting close?" he asked. Baird, who was still muttering hatefully to himself while he drove, didn't take his blue-green eyes off the cityscape rolling past the windshield. Strangely, there didn't seem to be much of a fight raging in the mostly abandoned buildings they'd passed so far.

"We're almost there." Baird replied. "Don't know why we haven't heard any radio com yet. Public transmission should be going crazy with a battle like this."

At this, Dom coughed and stepped up behind Cole's seat. "Ehm, I didn't...really...turn it on." He coughed again.

Baird whirled around. "You didn't turn public transmission on?" The blonde Gear was nearly jumping out of his seat. "You mean we've only been on two-way this whole time?"

"What!" Dom defended. "It's not like we need it!"

"No. No we don't. _But it's kinda nice to fucking have!_"

Marcus rolled his eyes, leaned between the bickering soldiers, and flipped a small blue switch.

Instantly, Baird and Dom's voices were drowned out as the cacophony of countless Gears--bellowing out orders, pleading for back-up, screaming out in pain, calling for comrades, cursing, yelling, praying--flooded the interior of the Armadillo right up to the ceiling.

"Holy shit." Dom mumbled as Marcus quickly turned down the radio's volume.

"Where are they?!" Cole asked angrily as he scanned the empty road and buildings ahead. "I don't see fuck all!"

Marcus was silent; slowly, he braced his hands on both of the two front seats and leaned down between them.

"Baird, floor it."

Swearing creatively, the blonde soldier slammed his boot into the pedal, sending the the APC racing off down the curving street. A moment later, they skidded around a particularly large building, and found themselves staring into the most chaotic battlefield they'd witnessed since Jacinto.

Dozens of Gears were crouched, laying, standing, and running along the unpaved streets and ramshackle buildings of Belphe's north quarter. All of their wildly assorted guns were aimed at a small army of Locust that was advancing on the all important storage warehouses. Everywhere Dom looked, the urban battlefield was alight with frag explosions and the flash of muzzle fire. It looked like the Locust had sent everything they had left: pockets of Flame Boomers and Grinders dotted the common ranks of Drones and Snipers.

What Dom couldn't believe, though, was not the incredible variety of the assault force, but rather the sheer magnitude. The numbers the soldiers faced now were unlike anything they'd ever seen before.

Saying that the Gears were outnumbered would have been an understatement.


	14. You're Invincible, Baby

What did I tell you? Long hiatus was long, and for this I apologize profusely! But hey, it's the last chapter, and I think it's almost 8k words, so I hope it was worth the wait.

As ever, there are things I am most displeased with, but I was so fed up with the chapter (and feeling rather silly for taking so bloody long) that I figured I'd just throw it up and garner as much concrit as possible.

Oh, and seeing as this is the end of AP (_or almost the end, hehehe_) I'd like to thank the readers, the reviewers, and Panda! (AP would be a flaming bag of stupid without her)

As for reviewing, I think you amiable folk know the drill.

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen: You're Invincible, Baby**

Delta squad flew into action. Years of military training and experience in the field snapped into easy focus as the men made the split second preperations for the chaos they were about to sink into. Baird guided the APC down a street along the very rear edge of the battlefield and into the cover that a rickity warehouse offered. Cole yanked out every med kit the old 'Dill had to give. Marcus stood at the ready near the hatch, his hand resting on the release handle and Dom at his heel. All the while, the public radio buzzed through the Armadillo's steel hull. The transmissions were less than uplifting.

"Alright." Marcus growled. "Baird, Cole. You've got your orders. Get on those casevacs; we'll get out on the field."

"Then _go_." Baird suggested dryly.

The sergeant's scarred lip curled. "With great pleasure." He turned and gripped the hatch's handle, his hand weighing down on the metal bar.

"Hey hey hey! Woah, baby, hold up!"

Marcus glared over his shoulder. "What, Cole?" Dom could tell by the tone of the man's voice that every second wasted was another inch cut from his already short fuse.

Cole's face was the image of concern. His massive hand pointed towards the opposite end of the vehicle.

"What 'bout the little lady?"

_Shit_. Dom had completely forgotten about Jackie. But there she was, perched on a seat at the other end of Cole's gesture, her mismatched eyes staring up at Marcus. Judging by the sergeant's face, it appeared lthat Marcus had forgotten about the young girl as well.

This was not good. Jackie had already been forced to let Anya go; how would she handle being left completely alone? Dom watched Marcus, knowing that the man was going to have to put all of his people skills--however sorely limited--to work to scrape by with this one. But time wasn't on his side. The clock was ticking; Gears were dying.

Marcus rubbed the back of his neck.  
"Jackie, look---"

"Go."

The sergeant blinked. But Jackie's expression had become a mask of youthful determination.

"They need you." she said. There was even a note of urgency in her soft voice. "Go out and help them. Just like you did with me."

Dom, as well as the other members of Delta, was taken aback by Jackie's sudden show of insightful bravery, but one look at Marcus's face suggested that the man was less than surprised at the girl's mature behavior.

"Go!" Jackie ordered, her frustration beginning to manifest itself as child-like irritation.

Cole came to stand at the youth's side. "Don't fret 'bout nothin', Sarge." he said firmly. "We'll make sure she gets to the hospital safe 'n sound."

Marcus opened his mouth, then took one look at Jackie's face and thought better of it. He nodded.

"We'll come back for you. Anya and I." His words carried the solemn weight of a promise.

"I know." Jackie replied cheerfully. "Now go save people."

There was only the slightest moment of hesitation, and then Marcus yanked down on the hatch's release handle. A loud clunk echoed through the APC, and all coherent thought was lost to the desperate roar of the battlefield.

The instant they left the metal safety of the APC, a soldier with a bloody stump for an arm was thrust into their faces.

"Take him!" bellowed the stalwart Gear who was holding the disfigured man. "_Take him!_"

The wounded soldier writhed before Dom, his blood-crusted mouth opened in a breathless scream. Unfazed, Marcus locked an arm around the Gear, hoisted him back into the Armadillo and passed him off into Cole's waiting hands. The maimed man couldn't even cry out; his blood dripped down the jamb of the hatch.

But no sooner had they taken care of Horribly Mutilated Soldier Number One, three others offered themselves to the door of the APC. In a matter of seconds, a small crowd of soldiers had already clustered around the Armadillo's hatch, all with injuries of varying severity. There were so many people, Marcus could barely even get out of the APC.

"Holy..." Dom whispered. He was momentarily stunned into stasis, but Marcus jumped down and leant a hand to the struggling Gears. Dom and Baird joined the effort, and before long, the haven of the APC was slowly filling with wounded soldiers.

For the time being, they were relatively safe behind the warehouse, but in the not-so-faraway background, the battle was raging on. More than once, Dom and Marcus had exchanged glances of near desperation; no one wanted to add hot lead to the approaching fray more than them, but the casevacs were keeping them rooted to the spot. There were just too many wounded...

Eventually, Cole emerged from the hatch and gave the next maimed soldier in line a deeply apologetic look.

"Sorry, baby; 'Dill's all full up."

Baird's scruffy mug appeared in the small space between Cole's side and the hatch's metal frame.

"You heard him. We gotta take these suckers back to the med centre, pronto."

Despite their hardened discipline, a unified groan rose up from the crowd of wounded Gears.

An instant later, the pathetic sound of keening soldiers was drowned out as a flurry of bullets pelted the armoured hull of the APC. The Gears, nearly all unable to defend themselves, ducked down; Baird swore vehemently and slammed the hatch closed. Somewhere just around the corner of the once-safe warehouse, a Grinder's heavy laugh boomed.

Dom didn't have to look at Marcus to know that this one was theirs.

Lancers held at the ready, the two soldiers flattened against the wooden wall of the warehouse and sidled down to the corner. As they neared the edge of the building, Dom could hear the scream of the Mulcher as it churned out another hundred rounds, all ricochetting harmlessly off the Armadillo.

Somehow, the metallic wail seemed almost too intense--it was then that Dom spotted the second Grinder positioned beside the first, its machine gun ripping up a small cluster of cement barricades on the other side of the road. The corporal's mind was racing: he'd never faced a Grinder this close before, let alone two.

"Baird, this is Marcus. Get the hell out of here."

"_Roger roger, Boss Man. First smart idea you've had all week_."

The APC's engine roared, kicking up a cloud of dust as it accelerated violently up the dirt street that led away from the battle. Staying true to its stupidity, the Grinder followed the escaping vehicle with its Mulcher fire.

This was it: the distraction. Instantly, Dom's heart leaped up inside his ribs, sending adrenaline-spiked blood crashing through his veins. He spun out from the scant cover of the warehouse. His finger pressed down on his Lancer's trigger; fire flashed before his eyes, the thunder of bullets deafened him, dark blood erupted from the Grinder's thick head. He was vaguely aware of Marcus's pounding Lancer fire at his side. The monster was so close; Dom could hear the tearing of leathery flesh, could _see_ the giant's rolling black eyes. Hearing the Grinder's angry bellow, the corporal knew that they were raining some serious hurt on the beast, but it wasn't long before the thing got its wits about it and brought its Mulcher back to bear.

"Griiiiiiind!"

It didn't have to tell them twice: Dom and Marcus slammed back against the wall.

Once again, the all-too-familiar sound of Mulcher fire filled their heads. Dom's lungs wrung out a storm of heavy breaths as the adrenaline momentarily subsided. Being pinned down by machine gun fire was no one's idea of a fun time, but at least they had successfully drawn all bullets away from the wounded soldiers laying vulnerable at the other end of the warehouse. Dom glanced at Marcus; the sergeant's mouth was moving, but the endless shriek of bullets smothered out his voice.

"I can't hear you for shit, man!" Dom yelled at his friend, then bit back his words as he appreciated how ludicris that really was. Coming to the same revelation, Marcus finally just nodded across the street.

The second Grinder, in almost perfectly opposite synchronization with the first, stopped its assault on the barricades erected alongside a smaller warehouse on the other side of the street. The moment the second Grinder halted its attack to let the Mulcher cool, several Gears leapt up and returned fire on their foe.

Dom mentally cheered on his fellow soldiers, watching through the stream of muzzle flash as they staggered back the Grinder.

_Yeah, get 'em! Bring that bitch down!_

For the tiniest moment, there was an overlapping quiteness as the Grinders switched off; one cooling down as the other geared up for another assault. Collectively catching onto the rhythm of the battle, the groups of Gears on opposite side of the street dove back into their concrete fortress, and the two members of Delta prepared to launch a second assault on their own Grinder. Dom's brain instantly catapulted back into full throttle; the corporal pushed off the warehouse side, Lancer at the ready, just as something soared past his face.

It didn't quite register; he saw the small, black-green blur flash before his eyes, but he was too caught up in the rush of combat to pay attention. The corporal pushed on. He caught a glimpse of the Grinder's face; it was screaming at something at its gargantuan feet. Then, the scene was whisked away as something dragged him forcefully back into cover. The air was blasted from his chest as he was thrown into the wall of the warehouse. Confused, Dom looked up: Marcus was standing unapologetically over him, icy eyes trained on the corner of the building.

There was a violently loud hiss, and then a cloud of sickly green gas rushed around the warehouse.

Instantly, the cloud laid itself thickly over the two soldiers. The ink was everywhere; coating Dom's eyes, crawling up into his sinuses, leaking down his throat. Instinctively, he coughed, but instead of exhaling, his lungs just seized up, tightening up inside his ribcage.

_Oh shit, oh shit..._

He needed to get out; they had to be on the fringe of the cloud--there was a chance. The corporal rolled in what he hoped was the direction away from the street. The Grinder's frenzied cries were ebbing away now, but Dom wasn't about to scramble out of an Ink grenade cloud just to prance headlong into open Mulcher fire.

He vaulted out of the gas at last, landing hard on unpaved ground. A hacking cough exploded from his chest, but he still couldn't draw a clean breath into his ink-slicked lungs. Recieving a couple of unceremonious whacks across the back, he coughed once more, then sucked in a deep, full breath.

"Holy...what the..._holy_."

In truth, _"Who in the holy name of fuck threw that?"_ was more akin what Dom was trying to convey; Marcus seemed to be thinking firmly along the same lines. Dom's eyes were still too inky to see the sergeant's face, but he could imagine that he was rather unimpressed with their mystery grenadier's less-than-stellar toss.

Marcus began to call out, then abrubtly cut himself short and swore under his breath. Footsteps aproached; Dom rubbed his eyes savagely to clear them.

"That's twice I've saved your ass, Bruiser. I'm gonna have to start chargin' you."

_Bruiser? What?_

It was a woman's voice. Dom wiped the last of the muck from his vision and stared up. The woman in question was no Gear; her clothes were ratted and worn, her fiery hair was pulled back from her face. She had to be civvie, or maybe even Stranded. Either way, her poor state of dress didn't make the enormous boomshot at her side look any less intimidating.

Dom glanced from the woman to Marcus. Did he know this girl? If he did, he didn't seem too happy. The sergeant's sour expression worsened as he surveyed the ragged woman.

"Tasha? What the---"

"---Fuck am I doing here?" The red head finished the sentence for him. "Saving my boys." She half-shrugged. "Looks like your rescue was just a fortunate by-product."

Marcus stepped forward. "It's generally more polite to make your intentions known _before_ you impel an Ink granade."

"Oh yeah?" The woman hefted her Boomshot. "Would you have rather I 'impelled' half a dozen bomblets? The sons of bitches are dead, and that's all that matters, _right_?"

The sergeant growled. Sensing bad blood, Dom quickly hoisted himself to his feet. "Wait, Tasha...'your boys'?"

A smile creeped over the woman's face, and she beckoned across the street. At this, the group of Gears in the barricade jaunted across the road, stepping over a pair of neatly asphyxiated Grinder corpses as they went.

"My boys." Tasha reaffirmed, gesturing to the three men that joined her. "Well, Randall's, anyways."

Marcus cocked a brow. "Randall? So then you all made it back here? Everyone?"

Tasha nodded. All the while, Dom's mind hastily tried to figure this seemingly random encounter out. This motley crew had to have come from Ilima--that was the only explanation for all this rampant familiarity that no one seemed inclined to clarify.

In the background, the clamour of the battle was slowly rising: the Locust were getting closer. Not two blocks away, the explosion of a detonated grenade reverberated through the smoky air. Instinctively, everyone threw themselves into the cover of the warehouse wall. Tasha glanced at her Gears; they were silent, waiting anxiously--yet loyally--for their leader to give her orders.

"Look, Fenix, there isn't much time. We gotta---"

Marcus held up one hand to cut her off, the other flying to his tac-com. Dom pressed his own earpiece, and the unmistakable static of a newly connected line filled his eardrum. Tasha, obviously without a tac-com, could only stare at the two soliders while they strained to hear something over their channel.

"..._Delta, this is Control. How copy?_"

Immediately, Marcus turned away from the huddled group.

"Anya." The sergeant's voice was so low, Dom could only hear it over the line. "I read you. Are you---"

"_Yes, Sergeant, I'm fine_." Anya was still making an effort to stay within the strict boundaries of com protocol, but judging by the frantic din in the background of the comm tent, Dom guessed that no one gave a shit about protocol anymore.

"And Jackie?"

"_Fine as well. Cole just radioed in to tell me that she's safe in the hospital_."

The shadow of tension evaporated from Marcus's massive shoulders, but Anya continued.

"_He also informed me that you and Dominic decided to invite yourselves to the battle._"

Dom cringed; something in the way Anya had said his name made it sound like she blamed him for letting Marcus out and about.

"Dammit, Anya, I'm fine."

"_You were _ordered_ to assist_---"

"We are assisting---"

"_---With the _casevacs!"

Marcus was glowering, but any remark he'd had waiting was cut off by another explosion down the road, this one even closer than the last. It was as if the latest blast had broken the bizzare barrier of relative quietness they'd enjoyed for the past minute: suddenly, they were all too aware of the cacophony of the fast approaching battle.

"_Damn! Alright, Marcus, if you're going to help, you might as well hurry up_."

The soldier reloaded his Lancer with a resounding click.

"Just give me something to shoot, Stroud."

"_Deal. Head west down the street from your current position. The area is getting hot fast, and the forces protecting the warehouses there are in serious need of assistance._"

Simultaneously, the two soldiers turned down the street, towards the place where the last blast had originated. Smoke was swirling around an enfolding battle: dozens of Gears were scattered around a complex of large warehouses, doing their best to hold off a wide line of hulking Flame Boomers. The scent of burning wood curled through the air.

"Copy that, Anya, we're en route. Delta out." Marcus dropped his hand and faced Dom. "You heard her, let's get down there."

Tasha suddenly jumped up.

"We're coming with you." she said stubbornly.

Marcus didn't even look over his shoulder. "Like hell."

"You can stay here and guard the wounded." Dom added, ever trying to translate Marcus's words into Nice People Talk.

At this, Tasha jerked her head at her men. "Then they can. _I'm_ coming with _you_."

Marcus finally spun around. Before he could utter his less-than-kind sentiments, Tasha threw a miniature fit, wrathfully brandishing her Boomshot like she was about to huck it at Marcus's face.

"_Randall_ is down by those warehouses. He doesn't have your Control watching his back like you do. He _needs_ me!"

Dom stared. Obviously, he was missing a key reference, because Marcus's hardened expression cracked just slightly at the second mention of this Randall. The man studied Tasha's face for a brief moment, but then the not-so-distant cries of dying soldiers forced him to tear away.

"Just stay outta my way."

With that, Marcus headed off down the street. Tasha nodded in grim appreciation, and she trotted after the sergeant; her men, evidently accepting that as their orders, made off towards the wounded soldiers that were still waiting for another casevac vehicle. Dom had no clue what was going on, but he sensed that everything would be explained later. Shrugging, he followed Tasha and Marcus.

The Gears were losing ground, and fast. When they had first left the APC, they'd been on the very outskirts of the fire fight. Now, they were almost right in the thick of it: the ranks of Flame Boomers were slowly pushing back the front-most line of COG soldiers, flames licking at their heals as they retreated. However, the situation in the streets behind the approaching Flame Boomers was even more bleak, with only a few small pockets of Gears keeping an army of Grinders at bay.

Meanwhile, a sergeant, a corporal, and a Stranded woman were hurtling headlong into the fray.

"Just keep out of their Scorchers' range!"

"No shit, Sherlock!"

"Shut it, Tasha!"

"Buuuurn!"

Instantly, the three dove in different directions, just barely tumbling away as a blast of heat choked out the street. Dom and Tasha scrambled into the meager cover of a fallen warehouse wall, ducking under the charred wooden planks in anticipation of a second assault. The cratered road shook as the gargantuan Flame Boomer stomped about; sure enough, the flames of another Scorcher shot erupted around their wooden barricade.

"Marcus, man!" Dom yelled into his tac-com. "Where are you?"

The roar of the flames was overlayed by a peal of gunfire, and then by a bellow of Locust agony--Dom knew his friend was just fine. Then, a sharp _krakow_ echoed in the street. The corporal held up his hand to reassure Tasha and peeked out over the fallen beams.

His head was nearly kicked off by a massive metal boot as Marcus leapt over the wreckage and into the warehouse.

"Dude, what the---"

Marcus snatched both him and Tasha by the collars and dragged them to their feet.

"Move!"

Dom only just managed to stumble confusedly along as the explosion from a punctured flame pack devoured the street behind him. All three of them were knocked back into the warehouse, little bits of gibs splattering all over the crates inside.

Dom lifted his head to survey the damage.

"Nice shot, man."

Marcus hoisted himself up--grimacing slightly as his hand brushed his injured side--and shook his head.

"Not me."

No sooner had the words left his mouth, another gunshot fractured the air outside the ruined warehouse. A few tense seconds passed; Marcus looked pointedly at Dom, still on the floor, and then there was second explosion somewhere further down the streets.

Dom scrambled to his feet. "What the hell?"

"Longshot round." Marcus sniffed.

Another single gunshot rang out, followed by an identical explosion. This time, pieces of Flame Boomer went flying through the street beyond the fallen wall.

"Somebody's sniping their fuel packs?" Dom's brow shot skyward. "Like, just one guy?"

"Looks that way. Remind me to buy him a beer after."

Tasha, silent all this time, was creeping to the ragged edge of the warehouse, eyes narrowed. Dom exchanged glances with Marcus.

"Tasha?" the corporal ventured.

The woman inched forward. She peeked around the side of the wall, and her face lit up. "It's Randall. It _has_ to be."

Dom and Marcus rushed to join Tasha by the smoldering wall. Sure enough, high above on a building across the street, there was a flash of light: rays of sun reflecting off a sniper's scope.

"There." Marcus whispered, pointing to a lone Flame Boomer down the street. It was terrorizing a group of hastily retreating Gears, laughing maniacally as it chased after them with its Scorcher. But Marcus had been correct in his prediction; there was another _krakow_, and a stream of fire erupted from the fuel pack mounted on the Flame Boomer's back. The beast wasn't even able to bellow in fear before the fuel ignited and it was blown to bits all over the street.

"Randall!" Tasha yelled to the place where the light had flashed, waving her arms. "Randall, over here!"

She was definitely Stranded, Dom concluded. Only a Stranded--someone who hadn't been bred and raised in the rigid discipline that all Gears were hopelessly steeped in--would so foolishly put more importance in finding one's buddy than in keeping one's ass firmly in cover. However, Dom and Marcus made no attempt to stop her; they only stepped back firmly out of range.

"That's him. I know it." Tasha pressed her lips into a thin line. "He's been itching to use his snipes for ages."

"He sure picked a good time to go crazy." Dom commented. "I think the sick son of a bitch just ghosted the whole Barbeque Gang."

Marcus snorted. "Two beers." he said. "Remind me to buy him two beers."

Shaking his head, Dom couldn't help but smile. A moment later, their tac-coms buzzed to life in their ears.

"_Delta?_"

The poor sound quality of the transmission did nothing to mask the disbelief in Anya's voice. The sergeant pressed a finger to his ear.

"Yeah, I read ya."

"_Um, either my screens are broken, or you just crushed a small army of Flame Boomers with your mind._"

Dom snickered; even the corner of Marcus's mouth twitched in mild amusement. "More like outside assistance."

"_How? Every Gear on my radar is either protecting the warehouses, helping with casevacs, or wiping bits of immolated Flame Boomer off of them._"

"Look...don't think too hard on this, but we think it might be Randall."

"_Hurnan? Are you serious?_"

Dom whirled on Marcus. "Hurnan?!"

The sergeant snapped a potent _not-now_ glare on Dom, then touched his tac-com. "All you need to know now is that the Flame Boomers are taken care of, and I've run out of things to shoot...Care to fix that?"

"_Oh, trust me, that won't be a problem. The Flame Boomers were only half of the trouble coming your way: the lines holding back the enemy offensive has fallen back, and the Grinders are moving up to the warehouses._"

Dom blew a slow, determined breath through his nose. Tasha was still on the lookout for Randall; out of the corner of his eye, Dom saw her subconciously heft her Boomshot.

Marcus, eyes closed, let his head lull back so that he was facing the ceiling of the warehouse.

"How long are you givin' me, Anya?"

A pause. "_At the most? Ten minutes. Five at the least._"

The sergeant's eyes remained shut, lids fluttering slightly as if they were mentally skimming over a million different possible plans.

"Order all Gears in the area to converge at my position." he said finally. "If we're going to fight these assholes, we need to stand together."

"..._Marcus, that is suicide_."

"Duly noted, Lieutenant. Now kindly contact any nearby---"

"_No. There are too many---_"

"We can give the wounded and civilian evacs time to get out."

"_But you---_"

"Anya!" Marcus growled, then inhaled and lowered his voice. "Please, just...trust me."

Silence claimed the line.

"_Okay...okay. I'll contact every able soldier in your area._"

Dom opened his mouth to offer some words of encouragement to his friend, but a sudden tumult of static and broken yelling exploded in his tac-com.

"Anya?" Marcus tested warily.

Dom could hear her voice; it was distant and muffled, as if she were talking to someone far away from her headset. In the background, someone was screaming. When Anya's voice returned at last to their ears, it was edged with tendrils of strain and..._panic?_

"_Delta? Can you still read me?_"

"I'm here." Marcus replied, brows knitting. "What the hell is happening?"

"_Marcus, you need to listen to me. We have E-holes opening up here in the South Quarter. They're not too close to the com tents yet, and we have a guardian squad here with us, so we should be....shit._" Anya paused, as if she was listening intently for something. Distant gunshots echoed through the line. "_Listen, Marcus, we might have to evacuate._"

"Evacuate? What the hell---"

"_Shut up and _listen_! I'm not going anywhere yet. There's still time, and I can still help you. I just...can't say for how long._"

Dom just stood back and took stock of the suddenly grim situation. Here were two soldiers, a sergeant and a lieutenant; both in inescapable scenarios, niether one showing even remote concern for their own safety, and yet each one scared for the other to the point of open hostility. If Dom didn't know better, he'd almost be tempted to call it tragic.

Anya broke the guise of silence.

"_Marcus?_"

"Yeah?"

There was a moment of comfortable quiet. "_Give 'em hell, okay?_"

"Count on it."

Whether through careful planning or sheer coincidence, the otherwise touching moment was summarily shattered as a single, copper-haired soldier leapt over the remains of the warehouse wall and promptly smothered Tasha in an unexpectedly desperate hug.

"You idiot!" Tasha's voice was muffled by the soldier's embrace. "You...wonderful, wonderful idiot!"

The copper-haired man just laughed and squeezed harder. Dom saw the Longshot mounted on the soldier's back; so this was their mystery sniper. Judging by the way he was all over Tasha, he also seemed to be the enigmatic Randall.

"Randall." Marcus called, likely as much to fill Dom in as to get the man's attention.

Randall finally released Tasha and turned to Marcus. His warm smile was in direct contrast with his abysmal surroundings.

"Sergeant!?" The Gear took a moment to stare incredulously at Marcus, then swore cheerfully and clapped him on the shoulder. "So, you made it, then! Did you...?"

The way Randall let his words trail off made Dom wonder if he knew about Marcus and Anya's hidden agenda.

Marcus nodded, once again confirming Dom's suspicions. "Jackie's fine."

"That's...great to hear. And your lieutenant? She's okay?"

At this, Marcus's jaw twitched. "Only if we finish up here before shit can get any thicker in the South."

Randall's happy expression melted into one of furrowed concern. "Yes, I saw the Grinders." He glanced around, locking eyes with Dom. "They're like a wall."

"Well, we gotta think of something." Dom interjected. "I mean, we've got, like, a hundred guys hoofing it over here in less than five minutes. Something tells me they might appreciate some pre-planning."

"I might have something you could make use of."

Everyone spun around. Tasha was leaning delicately on one of the many crates that claimed the space of the warehouse they took shelter in. With a dramatic flourish, the sly Stranded woman gestured to the enormous box beneath her. Giant black stencilling was spray-painted across the wooden side.

_BOOMSHIELDS_.

Dom couldn't help but smile.

"Anya." Marcus said quietly into his tac-com. "I think I found the solution to our little Grinder problem."

*** * * * * * * * * ***

Dom had heard _loud_ before, but no gunfire, no bellow, no explosion had ever even come close to this.

They were evenly matched: almost one Grinder to every Gear. But even just _one_ stream of Mulcher rounds hammering endlessly into the stalwart front of his Boomshield sounded like getting dental work with a jack hammer or six. Crouched behind the shield, Dom could feel every bullet pummel the into the metal--he was almost surprised that his arm didn't fly off just from the sheer force of the beating.

But still, he soldiered on. Him, and several dozen other Gears, all pushing through the sea of Grinders' fire in one, long line. As hard as the Locust were hitting them, their shields held. They were an unstoppable wave; an impenetrable wall of steel.

Marcus was right beside him, alternating between shouting words of encouragement to his hard-pressed comrades and grilling Anya for more information. The lieutenant had become Marcus's eyes, working feverishly to keep a steady stream of communication going over the line. The constant updates on positions and numbers and casualties were making Anya sound more like an auctioneer than a com officer.

The soldiers were shoulder-to-shoulder, marching in a tight phalanx so that they were protected from the Mulcher assault. But even then, a stray bullet would sometimes find a tiny break, and a scream of pain would echo out over the torrent of bullets. Yet, somehow, they marched on, ignoring the pain and leaning on into the onslaught. Even Marcus seemed to be holding up well under the strain of his injury--Dom knew the adrenaline was all that was keeping him vertical.

"Anya!" Dom dared to interrupt the frantic flow of communication between Marcus and the woman. "How close are we?"

"_Closer than you'd be comfortable with, I'm sure!_"

"Numbers." Marcus demanded.

"_Thirty feet and closing, Sergeant._"

The wall of shielded Gears pressed on. They were having to actually wade through the piles of discharged ammo accumulating at their feet.

"Distance?" Marcus requested gruffly again.

"_Twenty-five feet._"

With that, Marcus pressed his tac-com, projecting his voice into the ear of every soldier in the advancing line.

"Alright, guys, let's do this. Prepare to plant shields."

Dom did his best not to swear over the line. They were officially in the "instant kill" zone, where armour counted for nothing, and more than a moment of exposure to the Mulcher fire would result in being literally _mulched_.

"Distance?"

"_Twenty._"

For the last time, Marcus's hand flew to his ear.

"Plant shields...NOW!"

With a metallic clamour that reverberated through the street like thunder, the Gears all slammed their shields into the unpaved earth. Some were caught off-guard by the continuing barrage of bullets, but their fellow soldiers dragged them back into the relative safety of the Boomshield barricade they'd created. Undetered, the Grinders resumed pelting the planted slabs of metal with Mulcher rounds.

"Gears, ready!" Marcus had to yell to be heard above the tumult, even on tac-com. Just as they had planned, Dom mirrored the actions of the other soldiers and pulled all his frags from his belt.

"On three!"

The sergeant took four frags--two in each hand--and starting swinging them. Dom followed suit.

"One...Two..._Three_!"

In perfect synchronization, the men huddled along the line of shields all whipped their frags up over their cover and right into the Locust's ranks.

Once again, Dom _thought_ he'd heard loud.

Then nearly one hundred grenades detonated just steps away from where he was crouched, and he knew what _loud_ really was.

The pure kinetic force produced by the chain of violent explosions rocked the Gears back; they had to slam back up against their Boomshields to keep them from being hurled backwards. Dom's ears were ringing. Debris--some of it metal and dirt, most of it more organic--rained down on his back and shoulders. The Gears held their breath.

The ringing ebbed away into silence. For a moment, Dom panicked; had the noise of the blasts actually caused him to go deaf? Then, he heard laughter, and he realized that the enourmous silence that enshrouded the streets was simply lack of Mulcher fire.

Another, even more shocking revelation set Dom back on his heels: the laughter was coming from _Marcus_.

Dom watched as the sergeant rose from behind his shield and fished out a slab of bloody Grinder flesh that was wedged in his pauldron. His laughter started as a low, growling chuckle deep in his throat, then grew into a strange sort of sneering, adrenaline-pumped snicker. It lasted only a second before Marcus bit his lip and shook his head at the bloody, pulpy mess on the other side of the shields.

"Yeah, fuck you."

At this, the other Gears stood up; they all seemed to suddenly realized that they actually killed the bastards, which meant they _won_. Almost startled by this revelation, they took up an incredulous cheer. Dom's face split into a wide grin.

"Gotta say, man, that was a pretty bitchin' idea." He gave Marcus a congratulatory smack on the back, but immediately regretted it when the sergeant winced, his hand flying to his injured side.

"Shit, I _told_ you those stitches wouldn't hold forever. Are you okay?"

Marcus bent over slightly, his brow furrowed in concentration, then straightened and turned away. "They'll hold long enough." he growled. "I'm fine."

"And if they don't?"

"Well, Dom, I guess you'll have to hold my guts in." Marcus sighed. "Look, we beat 'em. That's all that matters."

Dom tried to keep a dissapproving scowl on his stubborn friend, but then he glimpsed the ridiculous mounds of Locust gibs on the other side of the Boomshields, and he couldn't help but chuckle.

"Epic." the corporal stated plainly. "That's what they're going to call this. Fucking _epic_."

Shaking his head again, Marcus reached up to his tac-com.

"We did it, Anya. It's over." He shifted his weight to one foot and surveyed the battlefield. "Shit, you should have seen it. It was..."

Dom mouthed _"Epic"_ to his friend and nodded persuasively. The sergeant snorted, but then all remnants of mirth evaporated from his features. He lowered his head.

"Anya."

Static. Dom's eyes widened.

"Anya, are you there? Do you copy?" Marcus's voice quickened imperceptibly as he snapped back to rigid radio protocol. "Repeat: Control, do you copy?"

The line crackled cruelly at them. Dom swore under his breath. He half expected Marcus to scream his lieutenant's name into the tac-com, but the man just dropped his hand limply to his side.

"She probably had to evacuate." Dom stepped forward, not daring to put a consoling hand on his comrade's shoulder. "They would have gotten her out. No big deal, right?"

Any further words of comfort Dom might have scrounged up were drowned out as the rhythmic chopping of a descending King Raven filled the street. The two Delta soldiers turned their eyes skyward as the bird jerked down out of the smoke-choked air to land roughly on the unpaved road.

"_Delta, this is Command. Report._"

The sudden intrusion in their tac-coms made Dom jump. Marcus pressed a finger to his ear.

"Hoffman?"

"_Yes, Fenix. Now _report_!_"

More Ravens were touching down, prompting the Gears to break off and board them. Dom watched as Randall and Tasha rushed up to the bird nearest them, his arm locked around her shoulders.

"North Quarter is secure, sir. Almost all warehouses made it through."

"_Good, 'cause shit is gettin' thick back in the South Quarter_."

_Not what Marcus needs to hear, Colonel Asshat._

"The com tents." Marcus said, keenly aware of the potential for tragedy. "What's their status?"

"_FUBAR, Fenix. Looks like the Locust bastards were savin' the best for last; they launched a substantial attack on the tents._"

Marcus's free hand balled into an iron-clad fist.

"Were they evacuated?"

"_Shit, sergeant, I don't have time to chit-chat with you. Get your ass onto a Raven and back to the hospital where you can put your trigger finger to good use._"

The sergeant snarled. But almost all the Ravens were either filled up with soldiers or already taking off. Dom gestured towards the closest aircraft. Marcus spat a vicious curse into his tac-com, then followed after Dom. Within moments, they were clinging to the support ropes in an over-crowded Raven, bouncing back and forth with the hulk of metal as it climbed into the sky.

"Hoffman!" Marcus growled into his tac-com the instant they were airborne. "What happened to the com tents? Were they _evacuated_?"

There was a breath of static.

"_We gave the order. Some are tricklin' into the hospital now, but we have reason to believe that some were seperated durin' the initial attack._"

"Then why aren't we assisting them?!"

"_Because, Fenix_." Hoffman exhaled, long and deep. "_Prescott has authorized an airstrike in the South Quarter._"

Marcus's head jerked to the side like he'd witnessed something horrific. Jaw clenched and nostrils flaring, he said nothing for a long time. When he finally did speak, his voice was dangerously low.

"And how many seperated Gears will die in that airstrike?"

"_That's not for you to---_"

The transmission cut off suddenly. It took Dom a moment to realize that Marcus had simply switched the tac-com channel.

"Anya. Anya, come in."

The sergeant repeated the call over and over again as he cycled through the channels. Dom glanced about at the other Gears piled into the Raven and wondered if they could hear the rising urgency in Marcus's voice; it told Dom that the sergeant knew exactly just how dire the situation was. He switched through many loud, overwhelmed lines, then reached a group of channels with almost no transmissions. He came to the second last channel, called out for Anya, then waited. Dom knew that the man didn't want to have to switch to that last channel--or even worse, have to switch _away_ from that last channel.

"Anya." Marcus stopped just short of pleading with the empty static. His voice was devoid of panic. Tired, Dom realized; the soldier's voice was just _tired_ now.

"_...Marcus?_"

The sergeant whipped his hand to his ear so fast, he almost threw a nearby private out of the Raven.

"Anya, I'm here. Are you at the hospital?"

There was a sound like sniffling.

"_No_."

_Shit._

"Where are you?"

"_I...somewhere...somewhere in the South..._"

"Why weren't you evacuated?!"

"_Because..._" Anya spoke quietly. "_I had to stay back just a little longer...You needed me._"

"Dammit, Anya! I...no!"

Anya made a sound like she was about to say something, but fell into a fit of hacking coughs. All lines of ire slipped from Marcus's features as his face went blank.

"You're hurt."

Anya chuckled softly, then broke up once again into thin coughs. "_Can't slip one past you, eh Sarge?_"

Wind rushed through the open hull of the Raven. Below, Dom could see that the south was, just as Hoffman had assured them, FUBAR. The whole quarter was alight with blazing fires and muzzle flashes.

Marcus closed his eyes, inhaling deeply.

"Hold on, Anya. I'll be right back."

"_Marcus..._"

The sergeant winced. "Just...hold on."

There was a tiny blip as Marcus reconnected with Command's line.

"Hoffman!" Marcus yelled, his voice suddenly carrying all the furious weight of a brawler calling out an opponent in a bar fight. "Call off the airstrike!"

"_Fenix? What the hell makes you think you've got the authority to order that?_"

"Our men are still out there!"

"_The Locust have more men out there than we do, Sergeant._"

Marcus lashed out, striking the side of the Raven with his fist. The resounding clang made the other Gears huddled in the KR flinch.

"_Anya_ is out there!_ Anya!_"

There was a drawn out moment of silence on the line. For a long time, the only sound was the incessant hum of the Raven engine and the beat of the chopper blades.

"_Well then, Sergeant, I suggest you go get her back._"

Marcus's ice blue eyes stared out at the smoky clouds rushing by. Slowly, those eyes narrowed, and the man whirled around in the tight space of the cabin. He pushed the Gears out of the way so that he was right up with the Raven pilot.

"Head back!" Marcus yelled. "To the South Quarter!"

The pilot twisted in his seat. "Are you fucking _cracked_? They're strafing the whole place to shit in less than five!"

"Then I advise you to _hurry_."

"Look, asshole, I don't know what they tell you about KR pilots, but some of us actually have a sense of self-preserva---"

Once again, Marcus slammed his fist into the metal hull, and once again, the Gears all jumped. But this time, Dom knew he saw the sergeant buckle ever-so-slightly from the effort. He was hurting--he _had_ to be--but he just straightened again and locked another vicious glare onto the pilot.

"There are goddamn soldiers down there."

The pilot didn't seem much fazed by the sergeant's aggression. "And there are goddamn soldiers up _here_. We just. Don't. Have. _Time_."

"They're _Gears!_" Marcus began.

At this, Dom stepped forward.

"We'll make time."

Both Marcus and the pilot turned to stare at Dom, the former giving him a nod of appreciation. The rushing air around them was slicked with tension, but finally the pilot cursed and grabbed the flight controls. Dom and the other soldiers had to hold on for dear life as the Raven wheeled about in mid-air and zoomed off. Within seconds, the unholy mess that was the South Quarter had appeared below them; the Raven began its descent.

Marcus was switching channels again. "Anya?"

"_Still...still here._"

"I need your location."

A coughing fit echoed over the line.

"_I...I'm near the com array._"

Dom's eyes raked the rampant chaos in the plaza below him, and he soon spotted the familiar line of communication sattelites. His heart fell as he saw that the whole surrounding area was crawling with Locust Drones.

"I've got a lock on you." Marcus said suddenly, nudging Dom's arm and pointing to a tiny figure slumped against a thick tangle of steel link fence. "Just hold on. I'm coming."

Dom motioned for the pilot to land the bird; the aircraft bounced as it touched down less than half a Thrashball field away from the place where Anya was hunched over. Dom couldn't tell from so far away, but he could see the stains of red that coated the lieutenant's right shoulder and arm. She must have changed out of her armour when she reached the com tents, because she was wearing only her grey officer's uniform--meager protection against a Hammerburst bullet.

The pilot beat the wall of his cockpit to get their attention. "Hey! If you're gonna rescue anyone, get your ass moving, 'cause you've got less than a minute 'til the airstrike comes and turns this whole place to a pile of smoking rubble!"

Marcus gave a quick nod of grim understanding, then turned back out to the battlefield near the com array. The Drones must have sensed Anya's presence, because they were slowly closing in on her position.

"Anya, you've got to get out of there. Can you move?"

"_Yes...I think so. Just let me..._"

Dom watched as the crouching figure haltingly rose to its feet and stumbled out of cover. Then, with surprising agility, Anya roadie-ran across the plaza, ducking to avoid several bursts of responding Locust fire.

There was an agitated stirring in the KR's cockpit.

"You've got thirty-five _fucking_ seconds to do your _fucking_ rescue so that I can get our _fucking_ asses out of here!" the pilot yelled, then glared at his dashboard clock. "...Fucking _thirty_!"

Marcus looked like he was about leap right out of the Raven and into the plaza. "Come on, Anya, _come on_..."

Anya was going as fast as her legs could carry her, a flurry of bullets following her as she ran.

The lieutenant was less than a stone's throw away from the Raven when she flinched, stumbled once, then crumpled to the ground.

_She's hit._ Dom thought frantically._ She's not going to make it._

She was clutching her side, a new bloodstain seeping through the fabric. Her scream of pain and frustration pierced the air in the plaza and the static in their tac-coms.

There was no dramatic cry, no hesitation, only a burst of movement, and then Marcus was hitting the ground and sprinting through the rubble of the plaza. The Drones were firing at him--Dom knew he had to be getting hit, but the sergeant didn't even flinch. Seconds later, he reached Anya. In one fluid motion, he gathered up her broken form and turned back for the Raven, his armoured body shielding her from gunfire.

It was all over so quickly: Marcus vaulted himself up into the KR, Anya safe in his arms.

"Fifteen seconds!" the pilot shouted.

Dom reeled on the man. "Then fucking _go_!"

The Raven shook, then took off into the sky. Dom had to latch onto Marcus's armour to prevent both him and Anya from being tossed over the side.

The air filled with thunder as a formation of airstrike Ravens soared around them, flocking over the South Quarter. The pilot only just managed to yank the Raven up as the airstrike force opened fire on the plaza. Instantly, the buildings and streets of the area were smothered mercilessly with unbroken machine gun strafing. Nothing in the whole quarter--no structure, no creature, no inch of ground--was left untouched by the blindly sweeping airstrike. The wails of the slaughtered Locust army was loud enough to rival the raging storm of strafe fire.

Dom didn't have the luxury of admiring the bloody spectacle of destruction below him. The Raven's cabin was too crowded for Anya to lie down; Dom was doing his best to ensure that Anya wasn't sent tumbling out of the sky.

It took only a single, slightly embarrassed moment for the corporal to realize that his efforts, while valient, were highly unnecessary.

Anya was leaning heavily into Marcus, her eyes screwed shut and her head resting wearily on his broad chest plate. Strangely enough, Marcus had responded in kind, wrapping one arm tightly around her injured side and shoulder to staunch the flow of blood, and latching the other onto the side of the Raven to keep them both steady. His head was bent over hers, blue eyes cast down.

Or maybe, Dom mused, it wasn't really strange at all.

Anya's body shook as she went into another fit of violent coughs. As she shifted, Marcus's wounded side was exposed. Dom bit his lip; lines of fresh blood trickled down from the valiently stitched gash.

"She needs help." Marcus mumbled, never looking up. "Not me."

As if to emphasize his point, the sergeant curled his arm even tighter around Anya's wounds. He turned slightly so that his massive shoulders shielded the vulnerable woman from the prying stares of the other Gears.

Dom's tac-com suddenly buzzed impatiently in his ear.

"_Fenix? Fenix!_"

Dom surveyed the sergeant and lieutenent before him, and he knew that they couldn't even hear Hoffman's drawling demand.

"Command, this is Corporal Santiago. What's up?"

"_Santiago? Where's Fenix? Did you recover Lieutenant Stroud?_"

"Yes, we got Anya. And Marcus is...um, he'll live."

"_Ah, well, that's...uh...good to hear._" Hoffman cleared his throat. "_I trust that both soldiers are uninjured?_"

Dom just smiled.

"You know, sir, I think they're gonna pull through just fine."

* * *

_[So, I stated that this was the last chapter...but I didn't say anything about epilogues, now did I? Hehehe....]_


	15. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Her eyes fluttered open. The old motel room was awash in early morning light, bleached white by the snow falling heavily just outside the window. Knowing it was too early to get up, she lay still for a long moment, lazily studying the wooden ceiling. The only sound was the snoring of the many soldiers slumbering in the other rooms of the motel. She shifted; the single blanket did little in the way of heat conservation, and her pillow was non-existant, yet she couldn't help but relish in the simple luxury of sleeping in an actual bed, even if it was just a stripped mattress on a cold floor.

After several silent minutes, she rolled over and looked at him.

A smile spread over her lips; he was still asleep. It was obvious that he was not used to sharing a bed, as he had effectively commandeered the mattress by laying on his back and stretching out his limbs in every direction. Resisting the urge to wake him, she sidled up to his massive form. His body was like a furnace; the air around him had become an aura of warmth, fending off the wintery chill that had claimed the rest of the small, empty room.

For a few seconds, she just gazed timidly at him. Then, she happily reminded herself of the previous night and pulled herself even closer, daring to curl her leg over his. The instant their skin touched, it was like laying on a heater, and all shyness fell away as she quickly became greedy for his body heat. Moving slowly so as not to disturb him, she tucked one icy hand under his muscled arm and allowed the other one to come to rest on his chest. Like a feather alighting on sand, her lips brushed his broad shoulder in a soft kiss.

His bulk stirred; she froze. Slowly, his head lulled towards her, but to her relief--and also mild disasppointment--his eyes remained easily closed. She stayed perfectly still for a second longer, waiting for his breathing to fall back into a deep, steady rhythm, then ventured even closer. She drew herself up and propped her head up on her elbow so she could see him properly.

He was handsome as ever, she realized with a tiny grin. Braving the cold of the room, she slid a hand out from under the blanket and gently touched his face. She began at his bandana, which had somehow managed to hold its place throughout the night. Her fingers smoothed out the worn fabric, then ran along the folded edge and down over his temple. Inevitably, her touch was drawn to the long, ragged scar that dominated the right side of his face; with a sort of natural reverence, she moved her fingers lightly over the white line of flesh. After a moment, her hand traveled from his scar down to his strong jaw, then down the sinews of his thick neck to play absent-mindedly with his scratched COG tags.

There were so many scars. She'd expected him to be battered, of course, but when she had finally seen him, she couldn't help but be taken aback. His body was a network of twists and knots, each one a story of both victory and sacrifice. There were small, round scars which she recognized to be bullet wounds, but there were so many others that confused and even frightened her. There were scars that careened viciously over his skin; groups of small scars that cut into him at inexplicable angles; scars that forked across his muscles like bolts of white lightning.

_You've survived so much..._

She settled down beside him again, head nestled in the crook of his neck, and let herself explore the war-torn expanse of his body. Her fingers went to each scar individually, tracing the dead flesh with the utmost care.

Somehow, his scars didn't make his physical body any less incredible. He didn't have the lean, chiseled muscles that some young model would have--that kind of physique was for vanity and aesthetics, nothing more. No, he was bound with the type of raw, heavy muscle that was developed from decades of merciless labour; from actually needing one's muscles to perform superhuman tasks every day.

Her hand came to his side and stopped abruptly. There, stretching from his ribs to his hip, was the largest scar on his body. Unlike the others, this crimson scar was still healing--in all actuality, it was still more of a wound than a true scar. Yet no matter what it was physically, the wound would always be a testiment to the sacrifice he'd made for her; she touched the stitched skin as though it were sacred.

Observing his latest wound made her distantly aware of her own. In the hospital, the surgeons had removed a total of three bullets from her arm and side, but had promised her a full recovery. That had been weeks ago, but she'd still been in quite a bit of pain ever since the Battle for Belphe. Suddenly curious, she shifted her injured side and tensed it experimentally.

The twinge of pain recalled the chaos of the battle to her mind, but, strangely enough, it also brought back far more pleasant memories. Sinking back down into the mattress, she finally permitted herself to submerse herself in the events of the past hours.

Her roommate was gone on an all night shift at the hospital. She herself had been getting ready to climb into her bed, eager to get what sleep she could before duty called the next day. Then, there had been a knock at the thin wooden door. She had answered it, not much caring to hide her irritation.

_"What do---Oh, Marcus. Hello."_

_"Hey."_

_"So...what can I do for you?"_

_"I, uh, wanted to congratulate you. On adopting Jackie."_

_"Oh, you heard. Yes, I guess it's official now...You know, I was kind of surprised they actually bothered to do any of the real paperwork."_

_"Well, you know how Hoffman feels about regulation. Thinks paperwork and protocol are the only things that seperate us from the Locust."_

_At this, she had given him a playful little smirk._

_"But didn't Baird find a Locust jailer's document down in the Hollow? Would that count as paperwork?"_

_"It just might. Don't tell Hoffman."_

_They shared a moment of mild amusement, and then the motel room fell into late night silence._

_"Anya?"_

_"Yes?"_

_"...You'll make a good mother. Jackie...she's lucky to have you."_

_"Well, she's lucky to have you too."_

_His surprised expression had made her smile._

_"Oh please, don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. She thinks the world of you."_

_Blinking, he opened his mouth, then closed it. Seeing that he was groping for words, she took the pressure off him by simply stepping up and wrapping her arms around him in a friendly embrace._

_"Thank you. Thank you so, so much."_

_Predictably, his posture went rigid. He had grunted something, likely trying to deny any gratitude. She just grinned knowingly into the leather of his bomber jacket._

_She was supposed to step away. She was supposed to wish him a good night, close the door, and tuck herself safely into bed. But she didn't. Instead, she had somehow stayed with him, her arms hanging around his neck and his face in her shoulder. Then, she suddenly became aware of what she was doing; recognized the dangerous territory she had edged into. She tried to withdraw._

_His strong arms stayed tight around her back._

_"Marcus..."_

There had been no theatrics, no expectations to uphold, no impressions to be made. There was just a desire, and its slow, steady fulfillment.

Granted, the lack of dramatic flair might have been due to the fact that they were both still injured. She'd been out of the hospital for a few weeks now, but he was still recovering from a series of intense surgeries on his side. Together, their weakened bodies were fraught with residual tenderness, and despite their most valient efforts, even the slightest exertion resulted in at least a small stab of pain.

But just as she could have guessed, it had been worth it.

Now, she just stared at him and blew an impatient sigh through her nose. She wondered distantly when he was going to wake up.

Finally, she couldn't resist anymore; with careful grace, she lifted herself slightly and pressed her lips to his, keenly feeling the scar there. She tasted the warmth of his breath, lost herself in his heady scent.

She drew herself away and looked expectantly at him.

He barely even moved.

Suddenly, she was reminded of how she'd felt just before she'd fallen asleep the night before. It hadn't taken her long to learn that he was not one for pillow talk or late-night cuddling, but he had seemed more than content to lay back and doze off while she toyed innocently with him. But before long, she began to feel a bit overenthused, like an excitable little puppy tugging on the ears of a tired, older dog. Now, several hours later, she sensed that feeling creeping up on her again, and she quickly pulled away, pushing herself into the tiny corner of the bed he'd left for her. It wasn't often that soldiers were able to sleep safely--least of all him--and she decided she didn't want to keep him from that rest.

Judging by the still-dim light filtering through the snowy window, she knew there was still a fair bit of time before they would have to get up. She glanced around the room, searching for something to distract herself with. There really was nothing to speak of: the square motel room was empty except for the mattress, a bare bulb hanging from the wooden ceiling, and two piles of clothes. The first of these piles consisted of a stack of neatly folded grey garments--her work uniform. The other was less of a pile than a chaotic heap of clothing, still scattered across the floorboards where they'd been so hastily shed. There lay the various pieces of her cotten rec clothing, as well as his pants and bomber jacket.

Her gaze darted back to the forgotten jacket. It was by sheer coincidence that the way the garment had been discarded had turned it partially inside-out; because of this, an inner pocket that would have been otherwise hidden was left in plain view. Sticking out of that pocket was a small, white square of what looked like paper.

She looked over her shoulder at him: still asleep. She hesitated for a moment, then her hand shot out from the warmth of the blanket and deftly plucked the white square from his jacket pocket. Bringing it before her eyes, she held it close so she could view it in secrecy.

It was, in fact, paper; worn and slightly yellowed with age, with one crinkled corner bent in. As her sleepy eyes focused, she realized that there was something written in scrawling black ink over the pulpy surface.

_You were such a handful that day, Jacks! Still had so much fun, though! Here's to many more..._

_Love, _

_Auntie Anya_

It wasn't until her gaze skimmed over the last few words that she even realized the familiar sentiment was written in her own hand. Memory flooded back to her as she hastily flipped the paper over.

A photograph. It was a photograph. She was perched on a green couch, just barely keeping a hold on a joyfully screaming toddler while the little girl clinged to a colourful giftbox.

_Jackie's birthday._

Eyes wide, she stared at the photo, then at him, still dozing silently beside her. Slowly, a smile painted itself over her features. Wasting no more time, she reached over and carefully replaced the picture in the inner pocket of his jacket.

The mattress gave a sudden squeak, followed by a groggy grunt.

"Your feet are friggin' freezing."

Before she could register a proper comeback, the floorboards beneath the bed groaned under his weight, and a heavy arm fell across her waist, dragging her unceremoniously back over the bed. She could feel his tight muscles on her back and his breath on her neck.

Upon turning over, it became apparent that the hands of sleep still had a firm hold on him. His blue eyes were little more than semi-conscious slits, and his jaw was uncharacteristically slack.

"Marcus?"

She felt his voice vibrate in his chest. "Mhm?"

"Are you awake?"

"Mhm."

As his eyes opened a fraction, his arm gained strength and snaked even tighter around her waist. She brushed a stray hair from her eyes, then touched a hand to his chest. His body had only belonged to her for a few short hours, but already the heated flesh felt familiar beneath her fingers.

Finally, his eyes opened completely, though they were still clouded with slumber.

"What time is it?"

She gazed all around at the pale light within the room.

"We still have a while." she said at length. He just cocked a brow at her. Rolling her eyes playfully, she glanced at the tiny digital clock by the edge of the bed--the very thing she'd been avoiding all morning, for fear of what it would tell her.

"Quarter to five." she sighed. "Happy?"

He just closed his eyes and ran a thumb over her slender shoulder.

"Yeah."

For a moment, she contemplated asking him about the photograph, but quickly thought better of it. Everything would come in time.

And for once in their lives, time was something they had.

"Anya."

"Yes?" She was too close to look up at him directly, so she just focused on his COG tags.

"...I remember what you said."

The way he'd spoken had been casual, even nonchalant, but something in that deep voice of his made her heart quicken.

"Oh?" Her fingers subconsciously toyed with the worn metal of his tags.

He inhaled slowly, easily. "Back in the restaurant. In Ilima."

Her mind raced through the events of Ilima, but the whole thing seemed years away, and she couldn't figure out what he was getting at.

Then, her breath caught in her throat as her own words wandered distantly back to her.

_"I wouldn't want that to be the last thing said between us."_

Like a spark to kindling, the tearful, confession-like conversation she'd had with him came thundering back into her memory. She'd nearly said it all to him, but in the empty darkness of the abandoned restaurant, when he had been laying--nearly unconscious--on the floor before her, she hadn't even thought he'd heard her.

Huddled under the blanket, she was glad he couldn't see her face--or her rampant blushing. She waited a few maddening seconds for him to say something more, but it appeared that he had made his peace with the matter. Of course, that didn't stop those words from dancing across her brain over and over again.

_I wouldn't want that to be the last thing said between us..._

She couldn't stand it anymore.

"And?"

There was a moment of mellowed quietness. He shifted lazily.

"I agree."

She blinked. In that moment, she understood: it was convoluted, and it was implicit, but it was there nontheless. Suddenly, she found herself struggling for words.

Luckily, he snapped back into the role of sergeant just in a nick of time.

"Wake up call is soon." he said, his voice once again becoming husky with fatigue. "Sleep while you can."

She wanted to say more, but again, she remembered that they had time.

Fitting easily into the contours of his embrace, she settled into their shared warmth and focused on the comforting sound of his steady breathing. As the lids of her eyes slowly drooped, she watched dust particles swirl and drift drowsily through the rays of a soft winter sunrise.


End file.
